


The Best Part of "Believe" is the "Lie"

by the_sky_is_forever



Series: I'd Lie For You (And That's The Truth) [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, POV First Person, Secrets, Unhealthy Relationships, gratuitous light descriptions, like really really unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life with him around was an adventure: running from the police, picnics in the sun, exploring the woods, hanging around in the Musain to have meetings with his friends, kissing under a lamppost on the high-street, laughing as we lay beneath the sheets, legs tangled, my fingers trailing patterns across his skin."<br/>-<br/>Grantaire lives alone. He has no one. Then he meets Enjolras and all of his friends and everything is different. He's in love and he's happy, for the first time in a long time, but maybe not everything is as good as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in first person. I know a lot of people hate that - I do too, usually - but writing it this way allowed me to go into Grantaire's thoughts in a lot more detail. It also allowed me to keep the actions and secrets of the other characters much more easily. I wanted to try something new.
> 
> This is the first time where I've tried to write an actual plot that isn't solely romance, so I absolutely will take criticism and advice but please, don't be too harsh.
> 
> I put this as "Graphic Depictions Of Violence" to be safe. There are scenes of torture, and talk of murder and general violence, but it's not heavy or written in a massive amount of detail. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> “If only these walls could talk…the world would know just how hard it is to tell the truth in a story in which everyone’s a liar.”  
> ― Gregg Olsen, Envy

* * *

 

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”

_― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones_

 

The first time I met him, it was like being struck by lightning. Now, isn’t that a clichéd way to start? I don’t care – that’s how it was. I was sitting in the back of a bar, one I’d never been to before, one where no one knew me. He was there, so vibrant and beautiful. He spoke with passion, rallying people, convincing them to think like he did. I remember it crossed my mind that I was intruding, or at least that I’d fallen into some kind of novel – no one did this. It was 2015. Who spoke to strangers in a bar about the instability of the economy in 2015? No one. Well, no one but _him._

He had my attention right from the off. I would never have his. At least, that’s what I’d thought. In the end, I had had far too much of his attention and it ruined me.

See, I used to have some sort of self-respect. Well, maybe that’s taking it a little far. I had rules. I didn’t _love._ I didn’t even let anyone close to me. I kept to myself; I drank; I painted. Life was simple.

He made it exciting. Life with him around was an adventure: running from the police, picnics in the sun, exploring the woods, hanging around in the Musain to have meetings with his friends, kissing under a lamppost on the high-street, laughing as we lay beneath the sheets, legs tangled, my fingers trailing patterns across his skin.

I got addicted to his way of life – he made me live again.

Then he took it all away. I got bruised, and damaged, and left alone, with no way of going back to the way I was.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

\---

**Three Months Earlier**

My fingers trail around the rim of my bottle of beer as the bar slowly fills. Disappointing. I was hoping the bar would be an unknown one. Everyone is laughing, clapping one another on the back in a very comrade-esque way. So, they know each other. This is organised. Fantastic. Isn’t that just my luck?

Taking a swig of my drink I try to ignore them all. One of them comes near to me, leaning on the bar and calling across to the woman working the shift. I sneak a glance at him. He has brown hair and a long face, and seems far too cheerful for my taste. He notices me looking and I’m too late to pull away. “Hi,” he says, and grins. I groan internally.

“Hey,” I mutter back. Please don’t try and talk to me.

“Here for the Les Amis meeting?” he asks me, face full of open curiosity. I already hate him.

Do I look like I’m here for a meeting? I’m here to drink. Piss off. “No,” I tell him shortly.

“Well, you should listen anyway; Enjolras is a fantastic speaker.” He grins at me, collects his drinks, and slips away without another word. Briefly I wonder who this Enjolras is before I remember, oh yeah, that’s right, _I don’t care._ I watch the man I was talking to reach his friends and they all laugh at something he says. A couple glance my way as they laugh, so I assume it was about me. I turn back to my drink and try not to seethe with anger.

Time ticks by, a few other people try to talk to me: a girl with dark hair, another with blond hair, a guy accompanied by another man. I ignore them all and they give up fairly quickly.

I’m just about to hop off my bar stool to leave when I see someone get up on top of a table.

Okay, not just someone. _Him._

The air is sucked out of my body as I struggle to process what I am seeing.

It’s not that he’s standing on a table as if he owns the place – although that might be a part of it. It’s not even his appearance, even though that’s a whole other part of the equation that I might be able to coherently think about someday. What takes my breath away is the way he commands the entire room within seconds, and without even opening his mouth.

He just stands there, the perfect mix of polite and confident, and raises one hand, drawing everybody’s attention, and making everyone fall silent, eyes fixed on him, rapturous.

My jaw slackens.

He’s beautiful – and I don’t use that word lightly. Sharp jawline, long and curly blond hair, his blue eyes visible even though he’s at the front and I’m at the back. My hand itches to draw him.

I stare, and I stare, and I stare. It barely even registers that he has begun to talk and when it does I’m thrown into a whole other dilemma. His voice is powerful, commanding, and so full of conviction. I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about but I can’t stop listening.

After a few minutes of staring at him, hidden by the bar, I pull my pocket-sketchbook out of my pocket along with a couple of pencils, and I begin to sketch. I’m a little drunk, but I’m used to working that way – God knows I spend most of my life drunk these days. Every now and then my eyes flicker up to look at him.

His speech is a performance, designed and structured to capture and enthral.

And he is beautiful.

I draw, and he talks. I aim to capture the passion that is about to burst from his skin. It’s hard to make someone shine when you only have pencils. It’s hard to draw something that even compares when the real thing is so… so… _colourful_.

A time later, hours perhaps, he jumps down off the table, his long, red coat flapping a little, dramatically. I’ve drawn four sketches of him, one of just his hands, two of his entire body, and one of his face. I watch him from my seat, only now is it dawning on me that I was going to leave.

I’m still watching him when someone coughs, drawing my attention. Startled, I look up and quickly snap my sketch book closed.

It’s the man from before, the first one, and he’s smiling at me. “I told you Enjolras was something else.”

I’m not in the mood to chat – I never am – and I shrug. The man laughs. “Well, even if you won’t say so out loud, your drawings show that you agree.”

I shoot him a glare and get to my feet, shoving my book into my pocket. “He’s just very drawable,” I snap.

He smiles. “Is that even a word?” he asks, and the worst part is that he doesn’t seem to be mocking me.

Resisting the temptation to punch him, I settle for pushing past him roughly and heading for the door. “My name’s Joly!” he calls after me. “I hope to see you here again!”

Never going to happen, but keep on hoping, pal.

It’s tough work getting to the door; people are constantly in the way. They keep trying to shake my hand and introduce themselves to me. I’m just repeating the same phrases over, and over, and over: _Okay, I’m going, Excuse me, Beg your pardon, Okay, Can you move out the way please._ At one point I’m pretty sure I tell someone that I don’t care.

Just before I leave, my eyes glance back, and I catch sight of Enjolras. He’s talking to someone, enthusiastic in both what he’s saying and what the woman he’s talking to is saying.

I get out of there before I do something senseless like go over to him.

On the way back to my flat, my sketchbook is heavy in my pocket, hitting my leg as I walk, and I want to look at the drawings again. Maybe try one from memory. Getting lost in my thoughts I don’t hear someone approaching until it’s too late. “R? R! Hey! Grantaire!”

I turn back; ready to tell whoever it is to get lost. I peer at the person, trying to work out if I know them. Then I start to grin. “Courfeyrac?” I exclaim. I should have known from the nickname. He reaches me and pulls me in for a one-armed hug.

I grip my childhood best friend tightly. We used to be really close as kids; we grew up in the same neighbourhood. When we got older, we fell out of contact, however. (Or, if I’m being more truthful, he was going somewhere with his life – off to university to become a law student – and I got scared I was holding him back. I pushed him away. It’s a bad habit of mine; it’s no surprise that I don’t have any friends.)

“I thought I saw you at the meeting.” He grins at me, like nothing ever went wrong between us.  

Realisation hits and I frown. “You mean you were-?”

“Oh, yeah!” Courfeyrac doesn’t look in the slightest embarrassed about this. “They’re great – I’ve been with Les Amisfor about a year now; Enjolras really is something else, isn’t he?”

I almost scoff. “Anyone would think that you’re all in love with him.”

Courf smirks. “He’s more your type, wouldn’t you say?” I roll my eyes, but then Courfeyrac continues, “Besides, I’ve- uh, I’ve got someone else.” I can see the way he’s trying not to smile at the thought of this mystery person so, as any good (ex-)friend would, I feign interest, and smile at him.

“Do tell,” I say.

Courfeyrac blushes, _actually blushes,_ and mumbles, “I met him at one of the rallies, one of Enjolras’ friends. He’s pretty great. His name’s Combeferre.”

“Well,” I smile, “at least it’s not that jolly fellow.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Did you just make a pun about Joly’s name?” Then he shakes his head. “Joly’s great but, again, he has someone – sometwo? – else. He has two people.” He stops talking, tilting his head on its side as he thinks hard.

I raise my eyebrows at him, and try to continue the pretence that I’m not itching to get home. It’s cold out on the street and my work and drink calls. “I’m glad you found someone,” I say, and the truth is I actually mean it. I don’t know what’s been happening in his life since we last talked almost two years ago now, but I really am pleased that my old best friend has someone in his life who makes him happy. He really does deserve happiness.

Even so, I’m not sure how long I can keep up the pretence that I want to be having this conversation, because, when it all comes down to it, it’s just another reminder that he’s going places, and I’m stuck.

He seems to get the hint about five minutes later as I not-so-subtly turn my feet in the direction I was going in and say, “Well, it was nice seeing you.”

So maybe it was less of a nudge and more of a shove. Either way it gets rid of him. Even if it is with a parting word of, “You should come by our meetings more often, R.”

I nod and smile and tell him maybe, but really? Not happening.

Everything’s a little blurry around the edges and I let my feet carry me home. When I finally collapse into bed, I distantly think that there was something I wanted to do but I can’t remember what anymore. I slip into the comforting darkness that unconsciousness brings and don’t remember what I dream about when I wake up, only the almost-memory of blond hair and blue eyes. Which mean nothing to me.

\---

My hangover is bad, but nothing a little whiskey won’t fix. Besides, I’ve had worse, oh God, have I had worse… I stumble across the wood floors of my flat and make my way to the kitchen, grabbing a few bottles of whatever and then head for my studio. A quiet day of art and drinking sounds good. I’m struck by the feeling that something important happened last night, but I don’t know what.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m lonely, and then I meet old friends, new people, whoever, and remember why I chose to live solitarily. After all, I am an artist. My mind doesn’t work like theirs. I’m an artist, and a drunken one, at that.

I find something I had been working on a couple of days ago, a watercolour of the park down the road, and work meticulously at it for a few hours. It’s killing me, this painting. I have no interest in it anymore, despite it being of my favourite place. It’s not technically in the park but you can get there by walking along the river that, at one point, does go through the park. I’ve painted that spot a thousand times. A grassy slope by the river. It’s missing something. It’s missing _vibrancy_. I’m not sure where I’d find that though – not in a person, surely, but perhaps not in the changing of the seasons either. The fact that it’s my favourite part of the town where I live has no effect on the fact that this painting just won’t come to life. It’s missing something.

Losing faith in the scene I push it to the side with the plans to continue it later. I look around for my pocketbook, and get to my feet grumbling as I remember that it’s still in my coat. Walking back to my studio, book in hand, I flick through it, wondering if there’s anything I’ve sketched that might strike me with inspiration. I’m not exactly hopeful though.

A few pages show promise, a mother with her child in the supermarket, two girls holding hands as they walk down the street, a bike propped up against a stone wall, but nothing really jumps out at me. Until I get to the most recent pages.

Memories of last night flood back through me. Blond hair and blue eyes. A passionate voice. A man I couldn’t take my eyes off. Red coat, striking figure, the perfect muse. I look down at the page, already thinking of ways I could recreate this man.

Not watercolour; he’s too colourful for such a pale medium, and not charcoal or pencil for the same reason. Colouring pens and pencils might work. I begin to pull open drawers around me, searching for paper and coloured pencils.

Finding what I need, I set to work, quickly, not taking too much care. I exaggerate everything, from the sharp line of his jaw and those high cheekbones to the swirling curls of his hair, then to the long flowing red coat and his lean figure. It comes out as almost cartoonish, but so beautiful. And yet, it’s not quite _him_. It’s more of a first impression. It looks like how you’d describe someone that you’ve only met once. Which, to be fair, is exactly what it is. At any rate, it’s disappointing. I let that feeling coarse through me for a while as I stare at the drawing, before I file it away and start again. An artist of as many years as I never gives up after four sketches and a first try.

This second attempt goes better, but only marginally so, and I begin to grow frustrated at how 2D the whole thing is. There’s no depth to the character on my page. After all, I don’t know him.

I can draw strangers so easily, with a mother you just have to show love, with two friends you just have to show joy, but with this man, I don’t know what to show. Do I focus on his beauty? His command? His leadership? I just don’t know enough about him. It almost irks me how incomplete my perspective of him is, but more so my desire to gain a better perspective.

I frown at the page. Then I sigh. I need to see this man again, if only to get this drawing right.

Getting to my feet I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and scroll through the contacts. I debate it for a second longer – he might have changed his number sometime in the last two years, it’s actually very likely he has – as I glance back and forth between the drawing and the name on my phone before hitting the call button. With the phone pressed against my ear I stare at my idea of Enjolras and almost miss it when Courfeyrac picks up. “Yo, what up, R?”

I blink, then, “Oh, hey, Courf.” I take a deep breath. “Uh, I was wondering, when’s the next, uh, meeting?”

There’s a long pause, in which I grit my teeth, and then Courfeyrac laughs. I can practically hear him waggle his eyebrows when he says, “Can’t get Enjolras out of your mind, huh?”

“No,” I growl. “I mean, yes, I mean- Oh, shut up. When and where, Courfeyrac.”

He chuckles, irritatingly, and I consider hanging up on him out of sheer dignity. I do not appreciate being laughed at. Then, thankfully, he tells me, “Same place. Same time. Tonight.”

Just as I’m about to hang up on him he asks, “Seriously though, is this about Enjolras?”

I wish you could glare at someone via phone call. “No,” I say pointedly and then hang up, the sound of his laughter ringing in my ears irritatingly.

If I spend extra time making sure I don’t look like a complete drunk, then that’s because I want to feel good for a change and nothing to do with a certain someone. (I make sure my shirt has long sleeves; Enjolras doesn’t seem the type to be appreciative of tattoos.)

\---

The walk to the bar is quiet, I don’t meet anyone, and I don’t pass anyone. It gives me time to think, which on some days I love and others I hate – today for example, I hate it. Mostly because it’s giving me time to get nervous about what I’m doing. Which is ridiculous – I’m just going to sit in the back again, listen, and draw. See if I can get a feel for Enjolras’ character. Pray that Courfeyrac doesn’t interfere.

And that’s what I do. Arriving at the bar – this time I notice its name, the Musain – a little early, I manage to get the same seat as last night. It’s a good seat, at the bar but slightly into the shadows. It’s a seat for someone who doesn’t want to be noticed. So how on Earth I manage to get myself into an argument with Enjolras himself is beyond me. One moment I’m sitting there drawing and drinking, working carefully on the shine in his blue eyes (I brought colour with me this time), the next I’m calling out to him, interrupting his flow.

He breaks off, mid-sentence, and I wonder if anyone has ever challenged this boy a day in his life. His eyes, oh those eyes, scan the bar, looking for the perpetrator, and I consider staying silent, until I notice Courfeyrac and another man – perhaps the boyfriend he mentioned – staring at me with wide eyes. I stand up. “Uh, yeah, hi,” I say. Enjolras’ eyes find me, and if I was impressed by his fierce stare before then it’s nothing compared to how I feel now I have the full force of it on me. I re-state my point and I see his eyes narrow slightly, ever so slightly. Then he smiles, just a tiny smile, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly, and my heart beats even faster.

I don’t do public speaking. That’s not me. I can be confident, sure, especially after a drink or twenty, but I haven’t drunk much today, and this man’s gaze is making my stomach do backflips.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was born for this. A natural debater. I’m surprised he’s not a lawyer. Maybe he is. He takes my point, rolls it around his mouth, reshaping my words, twisting and changing them, and I find myself admiring him all the more. I understand why the men all talk of him as though he is their lover.

I interrupt him again, and I hear an intake of breath from a few people, as though no one has ever done this before. Perhaps they haven’t. I wouldn’t be surprised. Most people seem so carried away by Enjolras that by the time they have recovered enough to speak it is too late. As I talk, I can see his smile more clearly, and I think to myself that he’s enjoying this. He likes the competition. I fight the smile from my own face and stare him down, taking the spotlight more than I have in years.

He’s stood on the table, just like last night, and that gives him an advantage, but not much of one.

It’s a battle of words, tossing ideas and arguments and opinions back and forth between the two of us, and we have everyone’s attention. We’re not paying attention to them, however, because our eyes are fixed firmly on each other. At least, I’m not paying attention to them, I can’t be sure if he is, but I know his eyes have not left mine since he located me. There’s something almost thrilling in the thought that I have so easily become this man’s entire focus.

Eventually I back down, becoming too tired of the argument, knowing that neither one of us will admit that the other is correct, and respecting that he has much more to lose than I. I raise my hands in surrender, and bow my head slightly, almost mocking him, and sit back down. I pick my book back up, adding a little colour here and there, and pretend I didn’t see the smile on his face.

I know some people are still watching me, the mysterious drunk with the sketchbook and dark hair who dared to argue with the blond God that is Enjolras. A few are probably wondering who I am. I think I’ll leave them without that knowledge. I don’t need a reputation. I’ve spent a long time building up the one I’ve already got – which is non-existence. It suits me well.

Enjolras closes the meeting not long after that and out of the corner of my eye I see him look my way. I continue my pretence of not seeing him and close up my book, finishing my beer with one long drink. I’m not particularly in the mood to get drunk tonight – and isn’t that a first – so I decide to head home immediately.

The problem is I forgot Courfeyrac was there. He swarms me the second I make a move for the door, flanked by the man I’m still assuming is the boyfriend. The boyfriend speaks first, “That was incredible; let me buy you a drink!” He says a couple of other things, but that was the gist, I blanked out the rest.

I smile blandly, looking at the door with longing, but then Courfeyrac chimes in. “Oh, go on, R, stay,” he implores me. I sigh, seeing that I’m not getting away anytime soon and that I may as well take advantage of the free drinks. So much for not getting drunk.

I let them guide me over to a booth and sit me down, both of them chattering away excitedly about mine and Enjolras’ debate. It takes ten minutes for Courfeyrac to even remember to introduce the other man to me (I was right, it is the boyfriend – Combeferre or something but it seems like Courfeyrac just calls him ‘Ferre’ all the time) and it took another ten minutes on top of that for the pair of them to remember they’d promised me alcohol. By that point I should have been back in my flat, preferably my studio.

I’ve just taken my first gulp of beer when I hear an already-familiar voice say, “There you are, I thought you’d run off.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre grin at someone – oh, who am I kidding? I know _exactly_ who it is – over my shoulder and Courfeyrac says, “He tried to.”

My mind is chanting at me, telling me, _Don’t turn around, Don’t turn around, Don’t turn around_. But I do. I turn round and find myself looking up at His Majesty himself. He’s smiling down at me, a curious light in his eyes, and I gulp. Then pray that it wasn’t too obvious. Apparently not, because Enjolras doesn’t comment, or even smirk. Up close I can’t help but admire his beauty again. It’s so much so that I almost feel self-conscious of my own appearance; I’m not exactly good-looking.

The man has a couple of people with him, one of them, Joly from the other night, another, a man that I may or may not have seen before – he has one of those faces. He might have been attractive, were he not stood next to Enjolras.

Enjolras is still smiling at me, so I attempt a smile in return. I think maybe I manage a grimace. He nods to his companions. “This is Joly and Bahorel. I’m Enjolras.”

“I know who you are,” I mutter. In my mind I’m thinking through ways to get out of here, up until I realise that this is my chance to unlock him. To figure out his character.

“But I don’t know who you are,” Enjolras counters. “In fact, apart from my friends here,” he gestures towards Courfeyrac and Combeferre, “no one seems to know who you are.”

“That’s the idea,” I admit, then after a pause, “I’m Grantaire.”

Enjolras nods, perhaps in approval, and says, “Good name.” I shrug. Enjolras almost frowns, less than a dip of the corners of his lips, but he fixes his smile back in place almost immediately. Now, isn’t that an interesting trait. “Would you mind accompanying me, Grantaire? I wouldn’t mind conversing with you further.”

I almost snort at his formal tone, but then, if one can pull off a lawyer persona, one would be expected to be a little posh. Instead I just shrug. “I was planning on going home.”

Enjolras smiles, always smiling, and always the gentleman it seems. “Perhaps I could walk you home?”

Sarcasm springs to my lips easily and I mock him, “Oh, what next? Perhaps a kiss under the stars outside my door?”

He blanches visibly and I almost feel guilty. Regaining composure again he looks at me seriously, no longer smiling. “I apologise, I was only making an attempt to be courteous. After all, you’ve proven to be my harshest critic.” He turns as though to walk away, but before he goes he turns back to me and says tightly, “Welcome to Les Amis _.”_ It’s so snippy; I never would have expected it from him. He walks away after that, Bahorel and Joly going after him – though Bahorel does give me a large grin before he goes – and I turn back to Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

They’re staring at me with a mixture of shock and horror on their faces. I roll my eyes. “R, that was really rude,” Courfeyrac informs me in a hushed tone.

I scoff. “I’m sure he can survive.” My eyes flick in the direction of the blond man, and I can see him ‘conversing’ with someone else already.

“Go apologise!” Courfeyrac insists.

“Why? He’s not my friend.” I honestly can’t see the point in apologising to the man. Sure, he’s pretty, and he’s proven he’s intelligent, but that’s no reason to go running around after him.

“And once again, you miss the entire point of civility,” Courfeyrac sighs. Combeferre is also staring at me like he wants me to apologise, so I get to my feet, complaining all the while, and down the rest of my drink before wandering across to Enjolras. Just before I get there, Bahorel elbows him to alert him of my approach. Enjolras looks my way and says something out of the corner of his mouth to Bahorel and Joly.

I arrive in front of him, determinedly ignoring the way Enjolras’ friends are staring at me, and look up at Enjolras. God, he’s tall, I think idly. Then I remember why I’m here, and it’s not to appreciate Enjolras’ looks. “I have been informed,” I begin slowly, “that my treatment of you was not polite nor civilised in the slightest. I have seen the error of my ways,” I continue dramatically, “and if you would still be willing, I would find it a _delight_ to walk home with you.” So, maybe I’m laying it on a little bit thick, but from what I could tell from Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s reactions, I was a little harsh.

I can see that Enjolras is trying not to smile; I can tell by the way the corner of his mouth is edging upwards slightly, and there is humour sparkling in his eyes. He spares a glance back at his friends and then fixes his eyes on me. “I would like that very much,” he tells me.

I don’t know whether to feel happy about that or not; on one hand I get to explore who this man is a little more and on the other I now have to be social for another ten to fifteen minutes during the walk back to my flat. I smile at him, none-the-less, and say, “Meet me by the door?”

He grins and nods, turning back to his friends and gulping down his drink. I walk back over to Courfeyrac, who seems a little busy with his tongue down Combeferre’s throat, and I cough loudly. They break apart and muffle their teenage-like giggles. I roll my eyes. “I’m going home. Enjolras is walking me. I’ll see you around.” I tell them only the basics but their faces light up, instantly glad that I apologised to their leader in red.

I just walk away, not in the mood to deal with their drunken and hormonal idiocy – that’s usually _my_ idiocy. I can see Enjolras waiting by the door, his red coat and blond hair a wonderful beacon. Making my way through the crowd I have to push people aside. The bar hasn’t emptied out like it did last night – this time people are sticking around, chatting excitedly, and if the looks I’m getting are anything to show for it, it’s probably about mine and Enjolras’ little ‘conversation’ earlier. I’m starting to regret speaking out, truth be told. Head down; don’t talk. I should remember that more often.

“Ah, Grantaire,” Enjolras greets me. Once again I’m almost blown away by his beauty – no human should have hair like that. He’s more a Greek God than a mortal man like me. Maybe I should give him a nickname. I’ll think about it.

I smile at him, or at least I think it was a smile, and answer, “Enjolras.”

He glances me up and down and I wonder what he’s thinking. Then I think about the fact that I probably don’t want to know. “Shall we?” he asks, and I nod, following him out the door and out onto the street.

Perhaps ‘Apollo’ would be a suitable name – the God of the sun, and light, and knowledge. Fitting, in my humble opinion.

As we walk, we talk. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to, for someone as opinionated (and wrongly so in some circumstances) as he is. My flat isn’t far from the bar and we’re by no means done talking by the time we arrive. So we stand out on the street under a streetlight and continue talking, neither one suggesting that we do so. It just happens naturally.

He seems genuinely interested in what I have to say about, well, everything, and that’s new. And makes me feel fantastic. For once I’m genuinely glad that I didn’t get drunk – I want to remember this tomorrow.

It’s cold on the street but the way he talks makes me think that it’s worth it. We talk for a long time, and I’m enjoying myself. He asks me about myself, about what I do, and why. I tell him I’m a struggling artist in a world depraved of art. He laughs at that, but I don’t feel like he’s mocking me.

Then he says, “So where did a man like you learn to debate like that?”

I laugh at his wording and look at him knowingly. “See, what you meant to say was ‘How did a drunken artist gain the knowledge to beat the high and mighty Apollo?’ but you wanted to be polite.”

He frowns at me. “My name’s Enjolras,” he says, and I’m about to point out why I chose that name, when he continues, “and you did not beat me!”

I laugh. “Oh, but I could have done.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to say that you backed down out of courtesy?”

I shrug, smiling, looking just cocky enough. I can almost see him working through the plausibility in his mind. I decide to leave him with that and cut off the topic, saying, “I best be off.”

He looks, for a moment, as though he might protest, but instead he smiles – one that’s not quite fully there – and says, “I should go too.” When I raise my eyebrows, he adds, “A man has to work, doesn’t he?”

I laugh and say that I don’t.

He just smiles. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

I smile back and repeat the sentiment. There’s a moment, standing under the lamppost where I genuinely consider leaning in and capturing that almost smile with my own lips – but then it passes. I turn to walk away and my hand is on the door when he calls across to me, “You should come to more meetings.”

I glance back over my shoulder, he’s leaning up against the lamppost now, looking radiant, and I smile. “Don’t push your luck, Apollo.”

He chuckles, and I take that as a goodbye and head inside.

I spend a long time drawing that smile, and it’s still not right. I end up putting a cross through his head and tacking it to my wall, everything else is perfect: the way his hips cock to the side slightly; the way the light shone on his coat; everything but the smile. It’s frustrating to say the least, but I’ll let it go for tonight.

Maybe I’ll see him again tomorrow. 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.”

_― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations_

 

I don’t see him for two weeks after that.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t bother me as I would have guessed it would.

I’m not avoiding him on purpose, I’m simply very busy. Courfeyrac calls a couple of times in the first week, asking if I’m coming back to the Musain, but apparently after two very short answers he gets the message, because by the second week, he doesn’t call once.

Again, I suppose I should be upset by that, but by now I have lived so alone for so long a time, I’m used to it.

I spend a lot of time painting, and not just him. I manage to sell a few paintings as well, landing me with enough money to get food for a couple of weeks and enough alcohol for a few days too.

I roll over in my bed, pushing listlessly at the sheets as they stick to my sweat-coated skin. It’s too hot in my room, which is probably because I’ve slept till noon. The air is stuffy and I can hardly breathe. I’m in dire need of a drink. As I pull myself from my bed, one hand going out to the side to find my glasses, I’m slowly becoming aware that someone is banging on my door. Then I hear a voice. “R! Grantaire! Are you in there?” I shove on my glasses, and can see the room a little more clearly, but I’m still blurry from sleep.

I groan and debate going back to bed and lying to him later. Still, if he’s come here then it must be important; God knows before a few weeks ago, we hadn’t spoken in years. I pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, not particularly wanting to answer the door in just my boxers, and I shuffle down the hall and pull the door open, just a crack, to peek my head round. Strands of my hair are sticking to my forehead causing irritation and all I want is a drink and a shower.

Courfeyrac is standing there, looking far too chipper for my liking. “What?” I demand.

He looks a little affronted and I almost feel bad. Almost.

“Enjolras is here!” he proclaims, and I have to think through what he said, my eyesight blurry as I sleepily try to focus on what I now see is more than just one person standing there. Now that I can see him, I wonder how on Earth I missed him. Striking as ever, he draws my attention easily and I become horrifyingly aware of how I must look. With even more embarrassment I realise that I’m wearing my glasses – there’s a reason why I usually wear contacts, and that’s because the large frames of my cheap glasses make me look less Fashionable-Young-Adult and more Man-Who-Has-No-Style-And-No-Money. I consider pulling off my glasses off and shoving them into my trackie pockets but it’d be too little too late really, they’ve definitely seen them now. I am acutely aware that I’m not wearing a shirt.

I turn my gaze back on my friend and stare at him in bewilderment. “And why exactly is Enjolras here?”

“Uh,” Courfeyrac says, and I start to count to ten in my head, the idea being that if he hasn’t come up with a good reason by the time I reach ten, I really will kill him. “See, there’s this thing…” I grit my teeth. “We’re having a protest!” Courfeyrac announces enthusiastically.

I frown at him. “What?” I ask, blankly. 

“A protest!” Courfeyrac repeats with a wide smile, as though saying it again will help me to understand what the hell he’s talking about.

“What are you-?” I break off, not sure of what I was going to ask at all. I’m starting to get a headache – it’s far too early and I haven’t had a single drink today. This conversation is getting old fast.

Enjolras steps in at that point. “We’re staging a protest in the park – they’re planning to build homes on it. I- Uh, _we_ would appreciate it if you came?”

He finished his sentence as though it was a question, and my heart is pounding from how he almost said that _he_ would like me to be there. I have to get a grip. If only he weren’t so attractive, I wouldn’t be having this issue. I blink. Once, twice. “I- Uh,” I start, eloquently. “I just woke up,” I finish, lamely.

“Please?” Enjolras prompts. I sigh.

“I guess so.” I pull the door open slightly, and I notice the way Enjolras’ eyes glance down at my shirtless form. Oh, shit, yeah. I forgot about that. Even Courfeyrac looks surprised as his eyes take in my tattoos. _Don’t blush, Don’t blush, Do not blush_ , I chant in my head. “Come in, I’ll go change.” Stepping back I give them room to enter and point Courfeyrac and Enjolras through to my living room. Enjolras glances back at me just before he goes in, and this time I blush. Hopefully he didn’t see. 

I move fast, hurrying because I want to get back to the other two, just in case they decide to explore and find my studio. There are things on display that I really, really, do not want Enjolras seeing. Now, or ever. I change into jeans and a t-shirt. He’s seen the tattoos now, might as well let them show. It’s not as though they’re obscene or anything – they’re mostly my designs, swirls, flowers, words and lettering, splashes of colour, maybe a dragon (you can’t hold _that_ against me, it’s a _dragon_ ).

I check myself in the mirror, and remember at the last minute to swap my glasses for contacts. That only takes a moment and I give myself one last glance over as I leave my room, heading for the sound of voices.

As I enter the room I don’t miss the way Enjolras’ lips part or the way his eyes widen slightly – looks like I was right about him not appreciating tattoos. Either that or I was very, _very wrong._ Courfeyrac clearly has no such feelings, either way, and he jumps to his feet smiling. “Let’s go!” he crows.

I rub the bridge of my nose. “I just woke up.” I say it again, as though it will have any effect on the pace that Courfeyrac is insisting on. “Let me just get a drink.”

My friends – is that what they are? – are watching me as I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, and their gazes feel heavy, but I can hardly bring myself to care. If they want to judge me for my alcohol-dependency then they first need to try surviving as an artist in this day and age. It doesn’t take me long to drink it, but apparently it’s too long for Courfeyrac – he’s practically bouncing in his impatience. Finally I throw my bottle into the sink, for lack of a better place, and glare at him. “Fine!” I cry. “Let’s go, already.”

He smiles at me, widely. Asshole. Enjolras is watching me silently. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I tell myself I don’t care what he’s thinking. The problem is the fact that it’s a lie and even I know it. Brilliant, I can’t even lie to myself anymore.

I follow Courfeyrac out of my flat, grabbing my coat and a beanie to cover my messy hair as I go, and I know Enjolras is behind me. I can hear his footsteps behind me, and it takes a lot of self-restraint to not turn so that I can watch him walk. If he knew the things I keep thinking around him, he’d probably be freaked. Courfeyrac is chattering excitedly about God knows what and all I can think about is Enjolras.

We’re almost half way to the park before I stop to consider what I’m doing – I don’t care about the park; I have no history with it. There’s only two parts of nature nearby that I care about – the river with its grassy slope beside it, and the woods. Even those I’m not obsessively fond of.

So why am I currently walking down the street with an old friend and a new… whatever Enjolras is? Good question.

\---

“Enjolras is here!” The cry goes up the moment we’re in eyesight of the park and I can hear it echo around the area. He’s like a Goddamn celebrity to these people. People are holding hands, holding up signs, smiling. It all looks… civilised. Nothing at all like I’ve been lead to believe protests are. I shoot a look at Enjolras and he smiles and says, “It’s a peaceful protest.”

I nod. Then I see the police and my heart jumps up into my throat. I grab both Courfeyrac and Enjolras’ arms and growl at them, “If I get arrested I’m going to kill you both.”

Courfeyrac just laughs. “I’m not sure murder is the best way to get payback for being _arrested,_ R.”

I look daggers at him, but Enjolras is smiling too and he claps me on the arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get arrested,” he tells me, smiling, and he pauses before adding, “ _R_.”

I let go of them and give Enjolras a scathing look. “Whatever, _Apollo._ ” I turn away quickly to hide my twisted smile, but it most likely wasn’t fast enough because I know I saw Enjolras smiling too.

He’s incredible to watch. He’s gone from my side within seconds of our exchange and he’s talking to groups, moving among them, organising, rallying, inspiring. It’s truly beautiful. He’s in his absolute element out here, even more so than on that damn table in the bar, and I feel like I could watch him forever. I can’t actually because Courfeyrac has latched onto my arm, pulling me in the direction of Combeferre, and away from my Apollo (I almost laugh at myself; he’s not mine). I still watch him from a distance, only half paying attention to what Combeferre and Courfeyrac are saying to me as they show me various signs and ask me which one I want. I tell them I don’t really care, because I don’t, and I end up holding one that reads: _Save Our Park – The Natural Way_. I don’t have the heart to tell them that it sucks, to be quite honest.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are talking excitedly so I leave them to it, moving closer to where Enjolras is; all but letting my sign drag in the mud. Enjolras spots me mid-conversation and he shoots me a wide, open grin. I can’t help but smile back – who could, or would, resist that face?

There are reporters around somewhere, I know, I’ve seen them, but that does nothing to ease my growing concern at the presence of the police. We all know that reporters can’t do anything when the police take over, and if a single one of us makes a wrong move, this could easily go south. They won’t shoot to kill – I have that small faith at least – but they might arrest us and some people could get hurt because the police are very open to hitting people.

I find a tree to sit by, leaning my back against the rough bark, and watch Enjolras shine. As long as I don’t get involved, everything will be fine. I let my eyes slide shut, basking in the warm sun. I  have my sketchbook but I don’t particularly feel like drawing right now and I have no real interest in anything here beyond Enjolras, so I let myself snooze, relaxing and learning to find even the hard ground soft beneath me.

Time passes languidly and I’m aware of everything that happens around me, over time a few chants pick up and fade out, and people are gathering while some are leaving, we gain spectators who grow bored and drift away, the police move around us, finding ways to cover everywhere, and the reporters are trying to find out who’s in charge.

I’m half listening to a conversation between a young-looking man and a dainty blonde thing who I think might be called Cosette, when someone drops to the ground beside me, his face alight with happiness. I peek through my lashes at him, smiling lazily, and say, “Hey, Apollo.”

“Enjoying the protest?” he enquires, nudging me with his shoulder.

I smile. “Well enough, I’m not really doing much, though.”

He laughs, a soft, warm laugh, and says, “Yes, I can see that.” Now it’s my turn to bump against him with the side of my body and he grins at me, a teasing light in his eyes. “I’ve got a speech to give soon,” he informs me.

I look sideways at him. “Shouldn’t you be with Joly, prepping, or something?”

He suddenly looks a little bit guilty. “I’m actually hiding from him, at the moment, he’s hanging around with Chetta and Bossuet at the moment, and I’m not quite prepared to deal with that.”

I shrug. “I don’t know those people.” Then I add, “But if they’re anything like Joly, I don’t blame you.”

He looks at me with mock-disapproval, before telling me, “They’re a- well, not a _couple_. I don’t know the word. A triple? They’re polyamorous.”

I smile. “Those are nice,” I say, and then add, thinking back, “Although, I’m not sure what I had was polyamory, and not just regular threesomes. I assume they are more serious about each other than we were.”

Enjolras smirks. “Now that’s something I would love to hear about.” He winks, and I blush hotly, making him laugh even more. He sighs, abruptly. “I should get to my ‘stage’.” He even does the quotation marks with his fingers and makes me laugh. He pulls himself to his feet before turning and offering a hand to me. “Come with me?” he asks.

I don’t hesitate to take his hand, gripping it tightly as he pulls me up. “Only because you need someone there who can interrupt if you’re making a fool of yourself with your wrong opinions,” I tease.

He laughs. “What wrong opinions?”

“The list is endless, Apollo.” 

He laughs at me and nudges his side against me playfully again. “Besides,” he then says, returning to our previous conversation, “Combeferre’s actually my go-to man for speech prep.”

He’s smiling at me, and the sun is shining, and everyone around us is happy, and for a moment I feel invincible.

Then the gunshot rings out.

Both of our heads snap up, looking in the direction of the noise with wide, shocked eyes, and we can see a fight starting up. People are clearly panicking, some are starting to run, others are yelling angrily, and on the floor, there are a few people crowding around something. I can’t know, but I assume someone got shot.

I’m still working through all this when Enjolras shouts, “Everyone split!” and people start sprinting for the road, for the woods, anywhere but here.

I’m at a loss, not knowing what to do, when Enjolras grabs my hand and breaks into a run, dragging me along and yelling at me, “R, what are you doing? _Run_!”

So I do. I’m not sure how, maybe it’s the hand firmly holding my own, but I manage to run, one foot in front of the other, running as fast as I can. We make it to the edge of the park, and Enjolras is laughing now, and I find that I am too. It’s a breathless laugh, purely from hysteria, but we’re laughing. He pulls me into the woods, out of eye-shot of the crowd in the park and he glances over his shoulder at me, grinning. He’s beautiful.

“This… is the most… ridiculous thing… I have _ever_ done,” I say between heavy breaths as we slow down.

“You’ve not lived a very eventful life, then,” Enjolras replies and I shake my head, panting. He’s watching me with a bemused expression on his face, giving me the chance to catch my breath, before saying, “C’mon.”

We walk deeper into the woods, until we can no longer hear the crowd behind us, and I ask, “Are you not worried about everyone else?”

“There’s nothing we can do for them right now, I have to trust that they can take care of themselves,” is his response, and something doesn’t quite seem right about that, but what do I know about protests? Nothing, that’s what. So I follow him, walking by his side, our feet falling in time, and I soak up the peaceful silence of the area around us.

“Where are we going?” I ask, and he replies that he doesn’t really know. It’s good enough for me.

As we’re walking side by side, his hand is mere inches from my own, and I wonder what it would be like – what his reaction would be – if I were to just grab hold of it again. He must have been thinking the same thing, or at least I think he must have been, because when the backs of our hands brush against each other’s, accidental or not, our fingers twist together automatically until they are linked. I’m blushing, I know I am, but I hope he can’t tell. I’m walking through the woods, after the most insane few moments of my life, holding hands with a guy. An attractive guy. My heart’s beating fast and I take a moment to irrationally fear that he knows.

I fix my eyes on the ground, letting his hold on me guide us through the woods.

Enjolras’ phone goes off in his pocket and he pulls it out, pulling his hand away from mine, and looks at it. He smiles, turning to me. “Joly says that Courfeyrac and Combeferre got away.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that because, in actuality, I hadn’t been thinking about them, so I simply say, “I didn’t realise Joly cared about them, particularly.”

Enjolras gives me a weird look. “Of course he does.”

I nod. “Right.” I’m suddenly so aware of his hand’s absence. It’s amazing how quickly I became used to having his hand in my own. Amazing or awful. One of the two. 

I have no way of knowing where we are or where we’re going, I’ve lost all sense of direction, but when he finally leads me out of the woods, I know exactly where we are. “Oh!” I say, shocked.

He looks at me. “You’ve been here before?”

Of course I have, it’s the place I’ve been painting, or at least, trying to paint. It’s the place that lacks _something_. It’s the place that I couldn’t find the vibrancy for to make it beautiful.

I nod quickly. “Uh, yeah, this is-,” I pause before mumbling the rest, a little embarrassed, “my favourite place.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” He suddenly looks a little uncomfortable, and I regret telling him – it was such a cliché thing to say. But then he recovers, pulling back from the awkwardness that maybe I imagined, and he goes to sit by the river and _oh_. There it is. Colour. Vibrancy. Brilliance. It’s all here now. “Are you coming to sit down?” he asks me, and I force my mouth shut and move to sit with him, all the while itching to be painting.

I sit opposite him, my legs crossed, as he leans back on his hands, legs outstretched beside me. We’re sat close. He’s smiling at me lazily, clearly at ease. I smile back but it feels forced and tight, and his own smile flickers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, feeling like if I admit that I want to paint him, he’ll react badly. He frowns at me, creasing his forehead, and I feel bad for lying. “I- Uh, I just, I kinda want to, um, paint you?” I phrase it like a question, as if that will take some weight off of it.

I’m not sure what emotions flicker across his face, only that there are plenty of them. I stare at the ground and hope he won’t address the topic further. I can feel his eyes on me; his stare is heavy despite it being an intangible thing. I flick my eyes up, meet his, and then look back down. “Forget I said anything,” I mutter.

I hear his soft exhale and he sits upright, pulling his legs back to him so he can sit cross-legged and scoot closer to me. His hand is on my knee and he asks, “What’s wrong?”

I frown for a mere second, my forehead creasing, and I look up at him. How can I tell him how beautiful he is? How can I begin to explain that he’s all the colour in the world that I have been missing in my drunken haze? How do you tell someone you barely know, someone you’ve just met, that they are warm sunshine and green meadows and shimmering gold?

I stare at his hand on my knee before picking it up with my own and flipping it over, holding it between my two hands and examining it. He lets me, watching me curiously. I thread our fingers together, getting them tangled, and hold his hand loosely. My heart’s racing ten to a dozen. He’s staring at me with his big, blue eyes, his lips slightly parted, face full of open curiosity.

I let his hand drop to the floor, pulling my own back and crossing my arms across my chest. He chuckles, smiling at me, and says, “You’re weird.”

I blush, I suppose that was weird, but it was less weird than what I was thinking.

Then he carries on, adding, “And you’re beautiful.”

I freeze. No. That’s not right. I’m not beautiful, _he_ is. I’ve never been beautiful, not in anyone’s opinion, probably not even my mother’s, not that I would know – haven’t seen her since I was three. I look up at him. “What?” I breathe.

He smiles. “You’re weird,” he repeats, following it up once more with, “and you’re beautiful.”

I shake my head, “I’m not beautiful.”

He raises an eyebrow at me and laughs. “Surely I get my own opinion on this?”

“It’s not an opinion,” I tell him, “it’s a fact. The grass is green; you look good in red; the sun is bright; I am not beautiful.” He laughs, openly and blatantly, and I blush, realising the one fact I probably should have omitted from my list, and I stumble out an apology. “I mean that coat, it looks, you’re very- I, uh-,”

“R, it’s fine.” He laughs. “Thank you.” There’s a long pause in which I study my nails and he studies me. “I wouldn’t mind if you painted me.”

It’s like I dreamt the words, for a moment I really think I did, he said them so softly. I continue to stare at the ground, working it through in my mind. I can feel my sketchbook in my pocket, weighty with the drawings of him. Slowly and carefully I pull it out. Flip it round in my hands. Run my fingers over the cover.

He’s looking at me, and he’s looking at the book.

I hold it out to him, and my voice is thick with nerves when I speak. “Have a look.”

I give him a moment to open the book, starting at the first page, naturally, and he breathes in sharply at the first drawing – and that one isn’t even of him. I’m watching him now, carefully, ready to grab my sketchbook back and get out of there if something- if he- if anything-

“R, these are really good,” he breathes, stopping my thoughts in their tracks. He’s on the fifth, sixth, seventh page by now. His eyes are wide as he stares down at them. He looks- He looks impressed.

I want him to stop looking but can’t bring myself to take it back. How will he react when he reaches the end? When he sees himself? Nothing good can come of that, surely. My hand jumps out to grab the book just as he turns the page. My fingers are a second away from closing around it when he gasps.

Then he’s staring at me – and I’m staring back.

I’m filling up with defensive things to say, ways to excuse the drawings, already, but he gets there first, and just as my first reaches my lips he says, “When did you do these?”

He doesn’t sound angry, so I guess that’s something. “The day we met,” I say. “Well, it was before you met me,” I correct myself, because he didn’t know I existed till the next day. It’s only been a couple of weeks. That doesn’t seem right. It’s been a lifetime. “I- I saw you at the bar and I drew you from the back of the room, then I went home, drew you some more, but it wasn’t right. So I came to the bar again. That was when I spoke up, and you saw me.”

He saw me, and he’s already changed me. Why else would I be sitting here, with him, after what I’ve done today, talking about him?

He’s looking at me like he hadn’t really seen me until now, or maybe that’s just me getting carried away with myself. Wouldn’t be the first time – there’s a reason I’m a failing artist with a drinking problem, and it’s not because that was my original life plan.

I’m happy, I am, but here? Right now? He’s looking at me, and I’m alive.

“These are really good, Grantaire,” he tells me now, and he’s smiling. How can I not smile back? Mine’s a sheepish, bashful smile, but his is bursting with enthusiasm and wholeheartedness. Does he ever do anything without full conviction? I would guess that he doesn’t.

“It’s not weird?” I ask, nervously, and he tells me that it’s not; that it’s a compliment, and a damn fine one at that. I’m laughing, and he’s smiling, and I feel at ease once more. He returns to his study of the art – the drawings of him – and when he finally passes my book back, our fingers brush together, and he captures mine. I place the sketchbook on the floor beside me and hold his hand.

“You made me beautiful,” he says.

I reply, “You are always beautiful, I actually made you less so.”

He disagrees with me.

We move so that we can lie in the grass side by side, and our hands are linked between us. There’s nothing I can do to slow the racing of my heart. Can people really fall in love so fast?

“I’ve never felt so peaceful,” Enjolras says after a long time.

I breathe out heavily through my nose and say, “That’s funny, because I can’t seem to calm down.”

He turns his head to look at me, and he’s so beautiful.

When he kisses me, I’m not expecting it. Or maybe I am. I can’t know, because I’m so distracted by how his lips are on mine, and our noses are brushing together, and how the hand that isn’t tangled with mine is now on my stomach, pushing the fabric of my shirt aside and smoothing over my skin. I flush, thinking about the tattoo there, but he doesn’t even notice, too busy changing everything that I am made of with his kiss.

He breathes out into my mouth, and he’s gentle, so gentle, none of that fiery passion that I have seen when he speaks in front of crows. That’s not to say that I don’t feel passion from him right now, just it’s a different kind of passion. A slow burn, gentle flickering flames, candles lighting up a room, nothing destructive, unless one were to topple.

He pulls away, too soon, oh, _God,_ too soon, and he’s looking at me anxiously. “Is this- Is this okay?” he asks me in a hushed voice.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, but I then manage to choke out a, “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, yeah.”

He laughs, more of an exhale of breath with a smile combined than a real laugh, but it lights up my whole world. Silver in the sunlight. Gold beneath the waves. Candles in the dark.

I kiss him. For the first time, I think maybe I know him – more than anyone else could or does. Still, I say, “I can’t figure you out, Apollo.”

“What is there to figure out?” he asks me, pressing our foreheads together and staring into my eyes, as though we are old lovers.

“You seem to me to be a walking, talking contradiction. You’re fire and rage, and you’re truth and power, but you’re also soft and caring, you’re honest and kind.”

“Who ever said I had to pick a side?” he returns and I smile at that. He has a point.

“But you should be able to see a little of both in you, all the time. When you’re out there,” I nod my head in the direction we came, meaning the real world, “you’re a whole other person, unobtainable and beautiful.” I shrug. “Here, you’re- you’re-”

“Yours?” he fills in, and my mind goes into overdrive; who ever said anything about him being mine? “I can be yours, R.” He tells me this with such certainty that I feel my stomach flip round.

“Why would you want to be?” I counter. We’re talking as if we’ve known each other years, or at the very least months, not days. I understand, of course, I feel as if we’ve known each other for a whole lifetime, but we haven’t. He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know the ways I am bound to let him down.

He stares at me as if I’m some kind of mythical being.

“Because the moment you decided to speak up at the meeting, I knew that I needed to know you more.” He sighs, and his warm breath brushes over my skin. “Because I took one look at you and I knew that I’d never seen anyone so beautiful; because when I got to know you just a little more, you became even more beautiful in my eyes, because of the art that you create and because of the words you say. R, I want to be yours.”

I want to run, I want to run away and never look back, but his gaze is holding me here and his words have taken my breath away. This is too much, it’s all too much, I don’t let people in and I don’t let handsome strangers tell me they want to be mine.

But I also don’t spend hours obsessing over how to draw one person, I don’t go out just to see one person again, even from a distance, and I don’t lie on the grass and talk about beauty.

Yet, here I am.

There he is.

I stare at him, swallow, and sit up, pulling myself away from his grasp, staring out at the river, my mind and heart racing. He sits up too and he seems so uncertain. “I’m sorry, that was-”

I don’t let him finish, clasping one of my hands over his mouth. He makes a muffled sound against my palm and I almost chuckle.

“You are too much, Apollo,” I tell him honestly. “Too much for me, too much for anyone, but I would gladly be yours. If anyone is likely to be able to suffer me, it would be you.”

His brow creases and I know he’s frowning at me. Most likely because of my “suffer me” comment, but when I pull my hand away, it’s to kiss him, so he doesn’t get the chance to object.

We stay by the river for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 “Nothing is beautiful and true.”

_― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_

 

His hand is warm in mine, and it’s the way it should be. We walk down the street, and I don’t care who looks our way. He’s talking, talking, talking. Something about today, the protest, I think, but I’m finding it hard to listen properly.

I don’t invite him into my house, instead I kiss him on the cheek and say goodnight, parting ways and smiling to myself.

Just as I’m sitting down in my studio, not half an hour later, my phone buzzes.

_Hi, I just wanted to say I had a great day and I can’t wait to see you again. E._

I smile at my phone and press the screen to my lips, trying to supress the happiness that’s bubbling up inside me. I type out a quick reply, ( _I did too, Apollo. You have revolutionised my already favourite place. R.)_ pressing send without much thought and too much thought all at the same time, and wait for him to reply. It doesn’t take long.

_Well, being a revolutionary is what I do best. I’ll leave you to your art._

I laugh out loud; there’s something almost flirtatious to his text, and he already knows that I paint almost all the time. I don’t reply, instead putting my phone close by so that, should he text again, I’ll know.

I work on my drawing of the river, this time adding something extra – Enjolras. How he looked when he first sat down, eyes welcoming me, asking me to join him with a smile and an outstretched hand.

There’s the colour I was looking for.

When I finally get to bed, I’m actually happy with the painting. I lie there for a while, before getting out of bed and going back to it.

I find a marker pen and flip the canvas over, scrawling on the back in my messy handwriting.

_Apollo – shining like the sun, June 30th 2015. The first date._

\---

I’m woken by the sun, shining through my open window, and I blink wishing it was a little dimmer. I roll over, away from the ray of light and allow my eyes to adjust.

There’s a warm feeling in my stomach, something close to happiness, and it takes barely a second to place it: Enjolras. I press my hand to my mouth, smiling into my palm and try not to act like such a teenager. His words are still fresh in my mind, _I want to be yours,_ and I can’t stay calm.

I hop out of bed and pad across my room, collecting various items of clothing and trying to piece together an outfit.

My plan for today: draw Enjolras, drink, make some mac and cheese for lunch, call Enjolras, continue drawing Enjolras, eat leftover mac and cheese for tea, draw Enjolras, drink, go to bed, and think about Enjolras.

I don’t even get as far as my studio when my phone starts ringing. I pick it up on the third ring, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?”

“R,” a familiar voice says into my ear.

I smirk. “Well, hello, Apollo, you’re keen, aren’t you?” There’s a long pause and I feel my stomach twist automatically. “What’s wrong?” I ask, flooding with worry.

“How fast can you get to the bar?” he says as a way of explaining – no way at all.

I grit my teeth and force myself to not make him tell me more and say, “As soon as you need me.”

“Get here, now.” He pauses, and then, “Please…”

I’m out the door before he could say another word.

My eyes find him the second I walk through the door – the bright red coat stands out a little – and I make my way over to him. He stands up and hugs me as soon as I’m within grabbing distance, and I let him.

“What’s happened? Is everyone okay?” I ask, urgently – which is weird, because I have no emotions tied to any of them, hardly even Courfeyrac.

He nods, and then shakes his head, and then shrugs, “It’s not _them_. Well, it is, kind of, but not really.” He looks lost and shaken, and I make him sit down, calling across to the bartender absently for two beers. I wait for him to elaborate. “It’s Gavroche.”

I frown in confusion. “Who?” I definitely do not know that name.

“Éponine’s little brother, you met Ponine, right?”

I struggle through my memories of the past few weeks and I may well have done. It’s not important anyway. “What’s happened to him?”

“There was an accident.” He’s talking quietly and not quite looking at me. I reach out and take his hand, rubbing my thumb up and down comfortingly. “Éponine should have been with him, but she was at the protest.” He curses. “It’s my fault, he shouldn’t have been alone.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known,” I try to tell him, but I’m not even sure he hears me.

“He got hit, R, he got hit by a car. Some guy driving over the limit, and Gavroche got hit.” His hand shakes in mine as he says, “God, he’s only eleven.”

I grimace in sympathy and ask, “Is he alright?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, no, I don’t know exactly, but from what I’ve heard, it’s not good.”

I pull him closer and he buries his face into my neck. I make small shushing noises and try to reassure him. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t you dare blame yourself – your friend wouldn’t, I’m sure.”

When I ask if he can visit Éponine and Gavroche he shakes his head and tells me no. I just nod and continue to sit with him. He checks his phone at least once every minute and eventually I take it off him; it’s just causing him more stress. It takes me a long time to calm him down, and we sit there all day, me buying him drinks I can’t really afford, and him learning how to relax a little.

Around 4:00 PM I stand up and hold out my hand for him to take. “C’mon, we’re going to my place.”

He lets me guide him out of the bar, and it’s the first time I haven’t seen him with confidence in every angle of his body. This is new, and it only makes me fall for him more.

I unlock my door and lead him to the sofa, sitting him down and gently rubbing my thumb against his cheek before going to the kitchen. I fix us up some snacks and two glasses of water – I don’t want him to get drunk; it wouldn’t be good for him right now – and take them back to him. I expected him to not have moved and am surprised when I find him standing at my piano running his fingertips across the keys. He’s not pressing any of them, just touching. “Uh,” I say to alert my presence.

He jumps and spins to face me. “Oh, sorry,” he says. “You play?” he then asks, gesturing to the piano.

“Among other instruments,” I reply, setting the food and drink down on the coffee table.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh really?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “Like what?”

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to his interest in me. “The guitar,” I say, offhandedly, praying that he won’t stick with the topic; I don’t exactly broadcast my love for music. He doesn’t, and he moves back to sitting on the sofa. When I join him, he picks up one of my hands, pushing up the long sleeve of my jumper and gently smoothing over the tattoos there. I flinch and try to pull away, but he holds on. His fingers find a row of three musical notes, across the wrist where the veins are easily accessible, and he glances up at me.

“Did they not hurt?” he asks.

“Like a bitch,” I tell him, and then I shrug. “It was worth it.” And it really was. He laughs slightly and goes back to his inspection. I watch his face, trying to understand what’s going through his mind. “Do you hate them?” I ask him eventually.

He looks at me in shock. “Hate them?” I nod and tilt my head to one side, waiting for a real answer. “R, how could I hate them? They’re beautiful.” He goes back to staring at my arm; his fingers trace the line of a pattern there.

Well, that was not an answer I had anticipated. I can feel myself blushing, and I’m grateful that he’s so fixated on my tattoos because it means he’s not looking at my face. “How many do you have?” he asks as he turns my arm over.

It’s clear that he’s trying to distract himself and, while normally I hate to talk about my tattoos, I will for him. “That’s a tricky question. They mostly merge together. I have them on my back, my arms, and a couple across my stomach, oh, and one on my right leg.”

His eyebrows raise. “Which hurt the most?”

“Stomach wasn’t good,” I tell him. “Wrist was pretty bad too.” I shrug. “It’s all worth it. Besides, arms are pretty painless and most areas of my back too.”

He nods, as if he really is interested. Finally he lets go of my arm. I smile at him a little sheepishly and automatically pull my sleeve back down.

“Why do you do that?” he asks.

“Do what?” I reply.

“Hide,” he returns.

I frown indignantly. “I do not hide.” Yes, I do, I know full well I do. My entire life is devoted to hiding away and not getting involved.

Enjolras sniggers slightly. “Yes you do.” He’s grinning at me, like he’s caught me out.

I stare back at him, trying to keep my amusement at his adorableness from my expression. “I like privacy. I do not hide.”

He laughs and pokes me in the side. “Don’t lie.”

I chuckle a little and take a risk, leaning in and gently kissing him on the cheek. “Drop the subject,” I say when I pull back and, without waiting for his response, get started on the food.

I know he’s watching me, but I’m determinedly not looking back.

We work our way through the food, talking but at the same time not – we don’t mention Gavroche, and we don’t mention the moment about me ‘hiding’.

When it’s closer to ten than nine, we’re closer than we’ve ever been before, and he’s curled up in my arms on my sofa. We’ve talked the day away, I showed him some more of my artwork (none of him, of course), and he told me stories of some of his rallies. Warmth settles in my heart and I’ve never felt like this before. He makes a soft sound as he wriggles further into my touch and my stomach twists.

Again, for the second time today, I’m seeing a whole new side to him. I kiss the top of his head and he smiles, eyelids fluttering shut for a second.

As we lie there in silence, I’m wondering how I’m ever going to break away from this moment. He nestles into me and murmurs, “I’m so tired, R.”

“Wanna go to bed?” I ask, without thinking.

I’m surprised when he nods. I get to my feet, taking his hand, and lead him down the small hallway to my room. He sits on the edge of my bed and starts pulling off his socks and jeans. I follow suit, and before I know it, we’re curled up again, this time in the soft sheets.

He’s warm in my arms and his skin is soft. He rolls over so that he’s facing me and moves closer so that his face is in my neck. I hear him breathe in deeply. “You smell good,” he mumbles, already half asleep. I laugh softly and tighten my grip on him.

My heart’s beating fast, so fast, but I just know that it’s right, and Enjolras is here in my arms and he’s perfect. I let my lips trail over his skin as I whisper to him, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

If I expected any kind of dramatic response, I didn’t get one. Instead I get a muffled and sleep-ridden, “Mhmmm.”

I frown and kiss at his skin. “Did you hear what I said?”

Enjolras shakes his head sleepily and cuddles in closer to me, wrapping his arms tighter around me and mumbles, “Go back to sleep, R.”

Disappointed, but somehow relieved, I kiss his skin again and settle back. “Alright, Apollo,” I say, and I feel his smile and wish that it was there because of my first statement.

\---

I wake up, and he’s still here. That’s all I can think for a moment. _He’s still here._

He’s awake, and he’s still here. He hasn’t gotten up. He hasn’t snuck out the house early while I’m still sleeping. He’s still lying here in my arms.

“You’re still here,” I say aloud, my voice a little hoarse from sleep.

He kisses my jawline and asks, “Where else would I be?”

I decide right there and then that today is going to be perfect.

“I thought you might have gone,” I say, I put my hand under his chin and pull him up for a real kiss, trying to convey how grateful I am that he stayed.

When he pulls back he gives me a weird look but doesn’t press it. Instead he tells me that he’s hungry and I laugh. I offer breakfast and he readily accepts.

He ends up cooking, and I learn that he’s pretty good at it.

I can never take my eyes off him, because everything he does is beautiful: when he’s crying; when he’s laughing; when he’s shouting; when he’s breathing; when he’s talking; when he’s cooking; all the time. He’s beautiful.

We get the call two hours later to tell us that Gavroche is going to be fine. Enjolras looks like he might sing with relief. Instead he sits on the sofa with me and we watch TV, all the while he’s grinning like a madman. He turns to me and says, “He’s going to live,” with the biggest smile I can imagine.

I laugh and kiss him.

\---

His phone rings a little while later, as we’re sitting on the couch, and a picture of Combeferre comes up on the screen showing who it is that’s disturbing our peace. Enjolras’ face goes white and he jumps to his feet, answering the call and immediately babbling into the phone, “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot. I’m at Grantaire’s, God, I’m sorry-,”

Combeferre must interrupt him because Enjolras breaks off and stands there listening. He glances at me at one point and I raise my eyebrows at him in question. He shakes his head at me.

Then he’s talking into the phone again. “Yeah, tonight, right okay. Sorry, again. See you later.” He hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket. “Damn,” he says lowly.

I sit up on the sofa a little more. “Everything alright?”

He seems a little distracted and he looks at me like he almost forgot I was there. “What? Oh, right. Yes, I just missed work.”

I frown. “You work with Combeferre?”

He startles. “What? I mean- yes. Yes, I work with Ferre.”

I reach out and take his hand, pulling him back onto the sofa. “Hey, relax, I’m sure your boss will be fine.”

“Ferre covered for me,” he admits, quietly.

I smile. “See? Nothing to worry about. Now sit here and relax, you’ve had a stressful two days.”

He settles back into my embrace and I curve myself around him a little more. I barely hear him mumble, “Stressful life, more like.”

\---

I go with him to every meeting that I can – I only miss one – just to watch him. I don’t believe in a single thing he says, but I believe in him. I believe that he believes it, and that he can achieve anything that he sets his mind to. He has everyone in the palm of his hand from the second he begins.

I sit in the back, as always, and draw. Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I draw him, but other times I draw his crowd, his following: their rapt attention; their passion; their enthusiasm; everything that I don’t have. The only thing his people and I have in common is the way we look at him like he is the sun.

I chuckle to myself as he gestures wildly in the middle of his speech; I’m tempted to interrupt, point out his error, but I decide that I’m not that cruel anymore. Not where he’s concerned, at least. I’ll tell him later, in private. I smile up at him, ignoring my sketch for a moment, and he sees me. He flashes a warm smile in my direction. I’m filled with a momentary happiness as he looks at me. He maintains eye contact with me as he continues to talk, and it’s either a challenge, or just a simple way of saying he likes looking at me. Either way, I blush, and people around start to look my way, muttering.

He winks, and then looks away, eyes searching over the rest of the crowd, engaging with them all once again.

This is an unorthodox meeting, called together at a moment’s notice – taking place before lunch, as opposed to the usual evening meeting. Apparently, Enjolras has plans for this evening but still wanted to talk.

When Enjolras is done, he smiles at everyone before jumping down off the table gracefully and sauntering over to me. I don’t stand up when he reaches me; someone has to keep his feet on the ground. He leans down and kisses me, unexpectedly. He’s never kissed me here before. I’m not exactly complaining, though. He pulls away. “You look really good, tonight,” he says.

I glance down at myself – there’s nothing particularly different – and I frown. “Coming from you, that truly is a compliment.”

He laughs, graciously. I can’t help but smile too.

He buys me a drink and spends the rest of our time there ignoring everyone else there. He asks to see my drawings, and I no longer hesitate when I pass him my book. He flicks through the pages, smiling, and I have to wonder how I got so lucky. He shows me one of Courfeyrac and Combeferre and tells me it’s his favourite. He does this every time: picks out the one he likes the most; he’s yet to choose one of himself, despite them being my best.

When we get up from our seats at the bar he automatically takes my hand.

“Enjolras!” a voice cries out, and the friendly face of Bossuet approaches, Joly and a woman in tow.

“Bossuet,” Enjolras greets him with a grin. “How are you?”

“Pretty great,” Bossuet says. I stand awkwardly beside Enjolras, still clutching to his other hand. The woman giggles, her arm wrapped around Joly’s waist, and asks, “Are you not going to introduce us to your lovely friend, Enjolras?”

I start as Enjolras turns to me with a smile. “This is Grantaire,” he tells them, looking at me in a way that I can only describe as adoringly.

I force myself to not blush, and offer my hand to Bossuet. “Nice to actually meet you,” I say in lieu of the whole ‘we’ve known each other for a few months now but haven’t talked’ that we’re probably both thinking. The woman offers me her hand next, and I press my lips to it lightly.

“I’m Musichetta,” she says. Something about her is so soothingly _nice_ that I find myself smiling back at her.

“Well, Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly, this has been lovely,” Enjolras says, clearly trying to end the conversation for his own reasons that I do not know.

Before he can continue with whatever excuse he was going to make, Joly interrupts. “Oh, you can’t leave yet,” he says.

Enjolras smiles. “I wish we didn’t have to, but we have prior arrangements.” I smile, a small smile, knowing full well that we don’t, and he squeezes my hand. Bossuet and Joly give us matching knowing looks. “Besides,” Enjolras continues, as he guides me past the group, “you can have a lot more fun without me here.” He winks at Musichetta, making her grin. She truly is remarkably beautiful.

We walk away from them quickly, and I can’t hold back my chuckle. “I thought they were your friends?”

Enjolras gives me an appraising look, “They are.” He kisses my cheek as we cross the threshold of the bar and exit out onto the street. “But I’d rather be with you today.”

I laugh and let go of his hand to wrap my arm around his waist. He puts his around my shoulders and we lean into each other as we walk, automatically, in the direction of my flat.

I pull to a stop, abruptly. “How come I’ve never been to yours?” I ask him, frowning with the realisation.

He shrugs. “No reason.”

I smile. “Can we?” I have a sudden desire to see his house, to see where he lives, to see if he’s messy or tidy, and to see what weird things he leaves lying around.

He pauses. “I suppose, it’s just that…”

“Just that, what?” I ask.

“I live with Combeferre.”

I didn’t expect that. “Wait, what?” I stare up at him, “You never mentioned that. You hardly even mention _him_.”

“I mention him sometimes,” he says, indignant. Then he shrugs. “It never comes up in conversation.”

“I didn’t even know you knew him that well,” I say, a little in shock.

He raises an eyebrow. “We’ve been best friends for a long time.”

“Oh,” I say, slowly. “So, can we go to yours or not?”

He shrugs again. “If you want, I only mention Combeferre because Courfeyrac’s probably over there with him. They’re a little…”

I wait for him to continue. “A little what?” I ask with a frown, and then I blush. “Wait, do they-?”

Enjolras interrupts me with a laugh. “No, not like that, more that they can be very ‘cute’ with each other.”

Then it’s my turn to laugh. “I can deal with that. I still want to see where you live. Besides, the meeting only just ended, they can’t be there yet, surely.”

“They didn’t come today,” he says. “You didn’t notice?” I hadn’t, actually. I just assumed they were always there. “Sure, though, we can go to mine.” He turns us around and we make our way back down the street, me following his lead.

\---

“Oh,” I say, in surprise.

He looks at me nervously. “What?” he asks, and all I can do is gape.

Because his house is… well… It’s fucking massive. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. I expected a small flat, not dissimilar to my own, but he lives in a real house, an honest to god, three storied house.

A thought suddenly dawns on me and I feel my insides twist. “Are you- are you rich?”

He looks a little uncomfortable, and now I think about it, I don’t know why I ever thought that he was in a similar monetary stance as I. “My parents are,” he says after a moment.

I die a little on the inside. “How rich are we talking?”

I must sound a little flat because he squeezes my hand and nudges me a little with his elbow. “Rich enough, and hey, they gotta die someday, right?”

He’s trying to make a joke out of the fact that he’s loaded, and that I have next to nothing. He can clearly tell that I have never felt more out of place. I scratch at my nose and attempt a laugh.

“Don’t stress,” he says. “Come on, Courf and Ferre are in there, it’s not like it’s the King of France, or anything.”

“We don’t have a King,” I manage to say.

“And thank God for that,” Enjolras says with a laugh.

He guides me inside, but even as I step over the threshold I still feel like I don’t belong. It’s the first time I’ve felt like that with Enjolras next to me. “Apollo?” I whisper. “Are you sure no servants are going to come and ask for my coat, or anything like that, because I don’t think I can handle that.”

He laughs at me. “Oh, shut up, R, I have a bit of money but I’m still _me_. Do you _really_ _think_ I’d have servants?”

I shrug. He helps me take off my coat as I stare in wonder around the room that we’re stood in. I’m distracted by the sight of my reflection in a large mirror that only accentuates how much I don’t fit in, so when he takes my hand again, I jump. He looks at me fondly and tells me to calm down. I bite my lip and reply that I am trying to. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. I let myself relax and nip at his lower lip, just a little.

“C’mon,” he says as he pulls back. “Let’s go find the others.”

I let him lead me up the stairs; I’m looking around at everything as we go. He’s in front, his hand holding mine, and I feel irrationally nervous. I try to reassure myself, telling myself that it’s just Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and that they know about Enjolras and I anyway. For some reason, it doesn’t work.

We reach a tall wooden door at the top of the stairs. He looks at me. “You ready?”

“No,” I say, and I’m only half joking. He grins at me and kisses my check, before pushing open the door and calling through, “Ferre, I’m back.”

A voice cheers loudly and another shouts, “Come! Join us!” in an overly posh tone. Enjolras laughs and, still holding my hand, takes me through to what I discover is the front room.

We get into the living room and Courfeyrac’s face lights up at the sight of us and he crows something excitable about my being there.

A voice from the other side of the room groans. “Oh, God, power couple number two. Can my heart take all this persistent loneliness?”

Enjolras laughs, saying, “Hi, Jehan.”

Courfeyrac laughs too before making a sympathetic sound. “Don’t stress, Jehan, just because _I_ left you, doesn’t mean _everyone_ will.”

Enjolras chuckles and tells me, “Jehan’s a romantic but thinks they’ll be forever alone.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” is Jehan’s response to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. Jehan gets to their feet, sighing dramatically, and I watch with amusement as they swan out of the room, calling over their shoulder that it’s completely unfair that _Enjolras_ has someone when he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.

I simply can’t resist, and I say, “I hate to ruin Apollo’s image, but he’s actually a lot more romantic than you would expect.”

Enjolras gives me a pleased look and Courfeyrac laughs. Jehan sticks their head back into the room just to stick their tongue out at me. “What are we watching?” Enjolras asks as we sit down on the second sofa, the one Jehan just vacated.

“ _Really_?” Combeferre asks in mock surprise – at least I think it’s mock. “You’re going to sit and watch television? What, no careers to destroy? Homeless puppies to rescue? Streets to clean?”

Enjolras gives him a tired and unimpressed look and I stifle a laugh. Clearly, he gets this a lot. He turns to me, looking a little betrayed by my laughter and I laugh more, bumping my head against his gently, and say, “Oh, hush now, Apollo, it’s all in good humour.”

Courfeyrac’s looking at us fondly and I’m determinedly not looking at him. Enjolras cracks a smile at my words and says, “Are you ever going to let go of the ‘Apollo’ thing?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Never.”

“I’ll have to think of a name for you,” he says with a wink.

I frown at him a little. “I’m not worthy of the name of a God.”

Courfeyrac laughs and interjects, “Except perhaps Dionysus.”

It’s Enjolras turn to frown and he replies, “I cannot accept that. Just because he’s the God of _wine_.” He tuts.

I smirk, “So, not Dionysus, however accurate it may be.”

Enjolras sits back a little in his seat and hums under his breath. “I’m going to need to think about this,” he tells me.

“Take your time.” I laugh, certain he’ll never come up with one that he’s perfectly satisfied with.

He raises an eyebrow at me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but doesn’t argue.

Three hours pass, and somehow Enjolras commandeers the TV remote and puts on a rerun of _Parks and Recreation_ (apparently a favourite of his). I’ve never seen it before, but I like it. Combeferre falls asleep on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. It’s peaceful, in Enjolras’ flat, sitting here with his – and mine now, too, I suppose – friends. Jehan never re-joins us; I have no idea where they went. 

The doorbell rings once, sharply and precisely, before I hear the door downstairs swing open and someone comes up the stairs, calling out, “Darling brother, have you missed me?” as she appears in the doorway, a smirk upon her beautiful face.

Enjolras smiles at her. “I’m not really your brother,” he tells her, and I glance between the two of them – the similarities are strong, so I wouldn’t have doubted it if they _were_ siblings.

She laughs delicately. “No, but you’ll do.”

She swans into the room and perches on the arm of the sofa that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are curled up on. “Are you going to introduce me?” she asks, a sparkle in her eye.

Enjolras sighs, dramatically. “Cosette, as you well know, this is Grantaire. R, this is my friend Cosette. She fancies herself to be my sister, or more she fancies that, since my parents are never around, her father should adopt me.”

She laughs again, and she has such a charming laugh, that I can’t resist smiling back at her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, officially, Grantaire. Enjolras has told me all about you.”

I shoot him a look and he shrugs, offhandedly. I look back to Cosette. “It’s lovely to meet you, too.”

Enjolras tells me a little more about Cosette as she heads off to another room, I’m not sure which.

“Cosette is dating Marius at the moment, you remember him? It’s a little bit of a sensitive subject at Les Amis, due to the fact that Cosette’s last partner was Éponine, who is now a little in love with Marius too.” I nod as if I understand what he’s talking about. What I’m getting is that I shouldn’t mention Cosette and Marius to Éponine – should I ever meet the girl.

Cosette reappears in the doorway, cocking one hip out to the side, swinging on the doorframe. “I hope you know that I know you’re selling all my secrets, E.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Hardly.”

I blush but she flashes a smile and winks in my direction, so I assume she’s not serious.

There’s something to be said about Enjolras’ little family, and I’m almost starting to regret not getting to know any of Les Amis _._ Cosette vanishes again and I don’t see her after that for a while.

When we’ve been sat watching the TV for a few hours, Apollo and I talking quietly for the most part, I realise that Courfeyrac and Combeferre have woken up at some point and started making out on the other sofa.

Enjolras notices too and raises an eyebrow at me. I know what he’s thinking and I can’t help but laugh.

“Shall we?” he whispers, leaning in and pressing his lips to my ear.

I return with a breathy laugh and move so I can kiss his lips. He smiles into the kiss and I simply _melt_ under his touch.

Have you ever kissed someone that you love more than anything in the world? There’s nothing like it. There’s nothing better.

Except… There is.

Have you ever kissed someone that you love more than anything in the world with the full intention of it being filthy, dirty, and downright inappropriate? That’s the something better.

Honestly? I forget that we’re doing this to beat Courfeyrac and Combeferre, because, once Enjolras gets started, all I care about is his lips and his tongue and his breath and those soft little moans and his hands in my hair and-

“Is this happening? Is this actually happening? Can someone reassure me that I did not, in fact, get high at some point in the past few hours?” a voice interrupts, and keeps rambling. “I mean, I know I have a bit of a reputation for being a hippie but I’m sure that even I would have noticed taking copious amounts of hallucinogenics.”

It’s hard to pull away from Enjolras, and I’m distantly aware that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are having the same problem, but Jehan sounds so genuinely bewildered that we manage.

Jehan’s staring at us all with open-mouthed shock all over their face. “Are you guys twenty six or sixteen?” they demand of us.

We all shrug, a little sheepishly, wiping at our mouths but smirking slightly, and Courfeyrac half-heartedly points out that he is only twenty two. I consider chiming in that I’m twenty three but Jehan looks so exasperated that I don’t bother.

Enjolras just giggles – and isn’t that a wondrous thing in itself – and kisses me on the cheek.

\---

Enjolras takes over my life as if he were always there.

It’s almost as if I don’t know how central he has become until it’s too late.

My life becomes a day in day out workout in keeping track of Enjolras, being dragged to meetings, running from the cops, hanging out at mine, painting him, playing for him, laughing with him.

I don’t spend a lot of time with his friends, but I know that there are some of them that I think I could get along with if I put the effort in. I’ve gotten closer to Courfeyrac again, but only just.

It’s one day, as he’s dragging me by the hand down a side street, away from the police, that I finally tell him and he hears me. We’re both laughing, and I really mean the laughter, I’m ecstatic and filled with the thrill of being alive and with him, and we slow to a stop as we duck into an alley. I smile at him and he’s beaming at me, and I shake my head and say, “God, I love you.”

I can’t imagine life without him.

He freezes. He stares at me. Then his face lights up in the most beautiful smile. He drags me in for a knee-melting kiss and I feel weak as he leans down and presses his lips against mine passionately.

“I love you too,” he tells me when he pulls back and I smile at him because _he loves me too._

I laugh and bite my lip, grinning up at him.

It’s been two months, and I love him. It’s been two months, and he is everything.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 “Love makes us liars.”

_― Cassandra Clare, City of Glass_

 

It’s dark outside, night having fallen at some point. We’re lying in my bed, his legs tangled with my own, and his mouth is slowly working its way down my jawline, leaving a trail of kisses. My arms are wrapped tightly around him, keeping him close, and I’ve never been happier.

I wind a strand of his hair around my finger, playing with it as he slowly works his way to my neck.

The hot kisses he leaves on my skin fill me with a buzzing feeling, and a tingling sensation where his mouth was.

Laughing quietly, I roll into his touch, wrapping myself around him even more. I feel his smile against where my pulse is found in my neck. His teeth graze against the point and I shiver with pleasure.

His bare skin is hot pressed against mine and, _God_ , I am so lucky.

He sighs, a little heavily. “I have to go to work.”

I press my forehead against him. “Can’t you just skip it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. It’s a regular thing; he rarely stays the whole night during the week due to his job (whatever it is) starting at awful times in the night. It’s about half eleven, currently.

“I’m starting to think you’re a hooker; why else would you work in the middle of the night?” I ask, rolling my eyes and not loosening my hold on him.

He chuckles. “I’m not a sex worker, if you’re concerned.” He starts to extract himself from my grip, his hands attempting to remove mine from him. A moment later, he adds, “I love you.”

I kiss his hand, since that’s the only place I can really reach now that he’s sat up, and answer, “I love you more.”

It’s just something we do: he tells me he loves me, and I tell him I love him more.

I didn’t realise that it was true.

\---

“Everyone split!” Enjolras roars, and fuck, we do.

I lose him in the fray and immediately start to panic, I can’t lose him. My mind immediately goes haywire as I spin round, searching for him desperately. My eyes scan the crowds and I’m getting more and more anxious. He should be here. He left my side. Where is he?

I make a sudden dash for it, finding a new spot and coming to an abrupt stop; what am I doing here? I have no interest in – actually, I’m not even sure what it is we’re protesting here. All I know is that Enjolras’ asked me to be here, so I came.

There’s a lot of us, and I guess that made me think I was safe, gave me the illusion of protection. But when the police showed up, guns and batons brandishing, everything fell apart.

I spin in a circle, searching desperately for Enjolras, and I can’t see him anywhere. I feel someone grab my arm and try to drag me away and, turning, I see that it’s Courfeyrac. He looks at me, panicked, and screams, “Come on, R!”

I let him drag me over to Combeferre, and I’m moving a lot slower than he’d like, taking into account how I’m still looking for Enjolras. “He’s gone, Grantaire,” Combeferre tries to convince me. “He’ll have gotten out by now.”

I almost believe them, given how fast he cleared out last time, but then I turn, one more time, and I see him.

He’s shouting at the police, waving his arms, shielding as many people as he can behind him, and my heart drops.

I’m running before I’ve even consciously thought through what I’m doing. My feet pound the floor, and I’m distantly aware that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are screaming my name, and all I can think is that I have to get to him before he gets himself killed.

I’m still over one hundred yards from him when one of the police lifts their baton and brandishes it in Enjolras’ face, clearly telling him to back the fuck off. Which he should do.

Adrenaline is coursing through me and it’s the only thing keeping me running.

The policeman raises his weapon. Enjolras pushes more protesters away. I’m running.

I don’t make it in time

                                        and I’m forced to watch

                                                                                     as the club comes down

                                                                                                                                   right on Enjolras’ head.

Fuck.

I’m yelling, I’m screaming, and I’m shoving people out of my way. “He’s my friend!” I screech. “He’s my- He’s my-.” I drop to my knees next to him where he’s fallen and I grab hold of him, lifting him carefully. “Enjolras?” I ask.

He’s not dead. He’s not even unconscious, thank God.

He’s stirring in my arms, clearly disorientated and possibly heavily concussed, but he’s not dead.

The policeman moves as though to kick Enjolras but I keep myself firmly in the way. I look up at the policeman who did this and glare at him, but soon look back down at Enjolras, one hand brushing his hair out of his face. “I’ve got you,” I say. “I’ve got you, Apollo.”

My heart’s beating so fast and his blond hair is stained with dark red blood and, oh God, he’s losing it so fast I know nothing about how to fix this, and he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding.

One of his hands lifts and touches the place where he got hit and he pulls it away, and faintly says, “Blood.”

“Fuck.” I groan. “C’mon, we’ve got to go, we’ve got to-.”

I try to move him but that makes him moan in pain. It hits me that we’re not going anywhere on our own terms.

Everyone scattered when Enjolras got hit – the only people left are Enjolras and I and a few policemen, to ensure our arrest when they get medical here.

I’m going to get arrested. I’m actually going to get arrested.

When the ambulance arrives and we’re both put inside, our hands handcuffed to the gurney, he looks at me with glazed eyes. I groan. “You promised me you wouldn’t let me get arrested, you git.”

He doesn’t laugh, he barely even smiles, but his lips twitch just enough to let me know that he would have done if he were able.

\---

At the police station we get separated and I can’t think, I can’t think, I can’t think. He’s gone and I’m in this cell and he’s _gone_.

My hands grip the bars of the cell they throw me into and I’m already pleading with them to let me out.

“You can’t do this; you have to let me see him, where did you take him?”

I receive no answers from any of them.

When I finally fall silent I sink to the floor. A voice behind me says, “Well, well, well, Gran _taire_ , what did you do to end up in here?”

I look round in surprise and see none other than Montparnasse stretched out on a small holding cell bed. “Parnasse?” I say, dumbly.

“The one and only.” He laughs. “Who was it that you were making such a fuss about?” A grin spreads across his face. “Did you finally find someone _worthy_ of your attention?”

Really, fuck him for bringing _that_ up. “Well, you certainly weren’t,” I sneer. “No matter how much you might have wished it.”

He simply raises an eyebrow and lifts his hands in surrender and _God_ he’s just as infuriating as he always was.

“Oh, find something to hang yourself with,” I snap, turning my back on him again.

“I’d rather hang you,” he bites back and I tell him ‘by all means’.

We fall into stony silence as I determinedly stare at the wall outside our shared cell and he does- well, I don’t know, but I assume it’s nothing worth noting.

After almost fifteen minutes have passed – I know because there’s a clock on the wall – he speaks again, this time in a quieter voice. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” I reply harshly.

Unfortunately for me, a policewoman answers his question by way of stopping at our door and barking, “Which of you was brought in with M. Enjolras?”

I’m on my feet in seconds. “That’s me, that was me, is he okay? Is he alive? Fuck, tell me he’s-”

She cuts me off with a scathing look.

Behind me Montparnasse starts to laugh. “Enjolras?” he echoes in disbelief. “You fell for _Enjolras_? Why am I not surprised? You always were a sucker for a pretty face.”

I don’t even turn around to look at him when I answer, “And there’s the reason I never sucked you.”

The policewoman looks like she’s about to laugh but forces herself to stay professional. Montparnasse’s laugh cuts off and I know he’s glaring at me.

“He’s alive,” the policewoman says. “He’s refusing to talk until he’s seen you.” Maybe my heart beats a little faster at that.

When she pulls open the door to let me out, I turn to look at Montparnasse one last time. He’s sitting up and staring at me with open-mouthed shock. I curtsey, and say, “A pleasure, as always. Enjoy your time here.”

The policewoman grabs me by my shirt and drags me from the cell, slamming the door behind us.

She drags me down a corridor, left, up a flight of stairs, two rights, another left, down a short set of stairs, two more rights, and then pulls me to a stop outside a door while she swipes a security card over the sensor. Then she all but throws me into the room.

I stumble as she lets go of me and my momentum almost sends me to my knees, but I force myself to recover. Righting myself, I lift my head and- there he is.

“Apollo,” I sigh in relief and throw myself into his waiting arms. He hugs me tightly until the policewoman drags us apart and regulates a one meter distance between us.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks tightly.

“I’m fine, what about you?” I ask, brushing off his concerns for me and focussing on the fact that he’d almost had his brains bashed in.

He gestures vaguely at his head. “I’ll be fine.” He pauses, and looks to be thinking hard. Then he sighs and says, “You’re really okay?”

I smile softly; the amount that he cares about me is so unlike anything I’ve ever known. “I’m really okay,” I reassure him.

That seems to appease him. He sits down on the table behind him, looking a little woozy, and I’m about to step forwards to check he’s alright when I’m stopped by a pointed look from the policewoman. Instead, I grit my teeth and watch him from my one meter barrier.

We don’t take our eyes off each other, I’m checking he’s okay over and over, I don’t know what he’s doing but it’s probably the same, until the door swings open and our guard stands to attention as a man and woman in uniform march in.

Both Enjolras and I flinch, looking up at the people in surprise.

“M. Enjolras,” the man says formally, and then turns to me, adding, “And… You are?”

I snort. “Unimportant.”

“That’s not what M. Enjolras here thinks,” the man replies, but allows my answer to slide.

My gaze flickers across to Enjolras, who is staring at the newcomers with grim determination, before settling back on the man before me.

When the man and women turn their harsh, cold eyes on Enjolras, and the man begins a speech that starts with the phrase, “You, M. Enjolras, have caused far too much trouble for us to ignore…” I’m filled with an overwhelming feeling of fear and the single thought of _oh fuck._

\---

Enjolras is slammed back against the wall and still, still, he smirks. There’s a trickle of blood creeping down from his head and he laughs in their faces. “I haven’t done anything illegal,” he spits at them. He’s tied to a bar in a rut in the wall, keeping him there but allowing them to knock him around a bit.

I’m straining to get to him, to get between him and them before they do anything permanent, but I’m being held back, held in place. Kept in check.

Enjolras continues, “This, on the other hand? Very illegal.” His hand comes up to wipe at the blood on his face before darting out and wiping it down the front of the woman who slammed him against the wall. She doesn’t even flinch.

“We are going to shut you down, M. Enjolras, don’t think we don’t know about what extracurricular activities go on in your group,” she growls. “There’s nothing legal about what goes on in _Les Amis_ after the daylight members have left.”

Enjolras’ expression doesn’t change. “We’ve done nothing other than try to positively influence this city.”

She smiles, and my throat constricts in fear. “Yes,” she says slowly, “Or at least, that’s what you’d have the world believe, correct?”

He lifts his chin higher, staring at her with disdain.

When she takes a step away, her high-heels clicking on the ground, she looks over him once. Then she turns to the man and woman holding me. It’s the first time I’ve had the full force of her gaze on me and I wonder how Enjolras is still standing. She laughs delicately, turning back to face Enjolras but keeping her body aimed at me. “Here’s what we’ll do. You tell us the names of the people in your group, yes that’s right, we want the names of _Les Amis,_ and where and when you meet, and we won’t hurt your boyfriend here.” As she says the last few words she turns to threateningly smile at me, running a manicured fingernail down my cheek.

I shiver under her touch and my eyes find Enjolras. “What the fuck have you done, Enjolras?” I ask him, my heart pounding so loud it’s a wonder I can hear anything at all. Then I scream the question at him, “ _What the fuck did you do?”_

He stares at me, wide-eyed, and for the first time he seems to be totally at a loss as what to do. “Nothing!” he panics. “Nothing, R, I swear I’ve done nothing wrong, I-”

He breaks off as the woman punches me in the stomach, hard. All the wind flies out of me and I’m left hanging, held up only by the two people holding me, and my head spins at the sudden lack of oxygen. I choke, coughing, as I try to breathe. My eyes find Enjolras. He’s staring at me and he’s so pale. He’s stood as far from the wall as he can get, tugging at the chain, from how he had moved forwards the second she had laid a hand on me.

I’d be on my knees if it weren’t for the hands holding me up.

“What,” I gasp for breath, “did you do?”

He crouches down a little to be at my level and looks me straight in the eye. “Nothing.”

I can feel my eyes filling with tears and, fuck, I will not cry. “You liar,” I breathe.

He stands up straight and breaks eye contact, instead staring at the wall above my head, even when I’ve been pulled to upright standing, and his face is a mask.

I get beaten around a little, but I no longer care about the pain I’m in, because Enjolras won’t look at me, and he hasn’t said a word. He’s not going to tell them anything; he didn’t tell me, so why would he tell them? He’s just going to let them do whatever they want to me.

Even when the woman pulls out a knife and slices my face with it, I know he’s not going to say anything.

She holds the knife to my neck. I resign myself to death; he’s not going to say anything.

What the fuck was I thinking? Getting involved with anyone was always a bad idea. Of course, never as bad as this, but the point remains. I don’t get involved. I don’t fall in love.

I shut my eyes.

I can’t let him be the last thing I think about. I think about the sun.

“Wait.”

His voice shatters my thoughts.

“Stop. Stop, please, don’t. Don’t kill him. He’s nothing to do with this, please, don’t hurt him.”

I open my eyes.

He’s not looking at me; he’s not looking at them. He’s staring at the ground, and he looks exhausted. Funny really, considering he’s not the one who’s been beaten within an inch of their life.

“I’ll tell you want you want to know, just… don’t hurt him.”

I know I should be glad that he even bothered to speak up, but I can’t believe he let it get this far. “It’s a bit late for that, _Apollo,_ ” I spit at him. A bit of blood trails from the corner of my mouth.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks like his heart is breaking. Then again, it might be, but it’s not for me. It’s for _Les Amis_.

Now I know what he really cares about.

The woman says something, and Enjolras replies, but honestly I can’t understand a word they’re saying.

I’m pulled from the room and everything goes dark.

\---

I come to a while later, I don’t know how long, in an empty room.

When I say empty, I don’t just mean void of people, I mean totally empty. I’m lying on the floor. I pull myself up and groan in pain, but fast decide that it’s no worse than a bar fight gone wrong, and drag myself over to lean against the wall.

I wonder if Enjolras is alright for a brief moment, and then I remember what he let happen to me.

I sit in silence, alone, for what feels like forever.

The funny part is, I really don’t care.

I have no idea where Enjolras is, nor what it is that has got us into this mess, but I have no real desire to find out.

I’m numb. I’m completely and utterly numb.

I want to get out, sure, but I don’t really care if I’m left here for the rest of eternity. There’s no way I can see Enjolras after this, and there’s no way he’ll want to see me – given how I’m the reason he’s probably now sat in an interrogation room, selling out his friends.

What do I have to live for now?

\---

I’m released at some point, and when I get outside I discover it’s the middle of the night.

 _Good_ , I think bitterly, _that means there’s no chance I’ll run into anyone who’ll ask questions._

I mean Courfeyrac, of course, or Combeferre, or Jehan, or even lovely Cosette. I need a drink, bad. And I need not to have to talk to anyone for a few weeks at least.

I stumble back to my flat, spending half the time unsure if I’m going in the right direction, and somehow manage to get inside.

Reaching my kitchen, I pull out any and all alcohol I can find. Right now, there are approximately two things I care about in this world, and one of them I can forget by drinking a lot of the other.

It’s as I’m opening the second bottle of wine that it hits me – when could he have possibly done this- this _thing_?

Not that I know what it is, exactly, but that lady said that he and some other Les Amis members have been meeting at night – and that can’t be true; he’s been with me almost every night.

But, I guess I just answered my own question: _almost_ every night. All those times he left before midnight are suddenly accounted for.

I take another gulp and try not to think. I don’t dare look in the mirror; the state he’s left me in can’t be pretty. I don’t want to know.

Instead I find my way to my studio, dragging multiple canvases that I’ve been saving for something important out from under my desk and carry them into the front room. I line them up against the wall. Then I fetch some paints and grab a handful of pencils.

On the first, I sketch out a rough outline before I really begin – I’m purposeful in what I’m doing and I have some semblance of a plan.

The painting comes out neat, precise, perfect, and it’s not _him_. I mean, technically it is him – but it’s not how I see him now.

I stare at his face on my canvas and think about how I’ve painted him like I did before tonight.

When I first saw him, I didn’t know him, and thought I never would, so I drew him that way – unobtainable, and like a stranger. Far beyond me, where I couldn’t reach him.

Then, I got to know him, then he reached out to me, then I told him that I loved him and he said that he loved me, so I painted him with permanency, with strong colours that were firm and absolute.

Then… Then tonight happened.

I can’t paint him with the trust that I had before, I just can’t.

I start on a second painting, and this one I don’t plan; I don’t prepare. All my thoughts, feelings, emotions, pour out through my paintbrush and he forms on my blank canvas erratically and uncontrollably. He’s not neat, and he’s certainly not perfect. Not anymore.

The colours run, mixing together where they shouldn’t, trailing down the canvas and covering the floor with colour too. I have paint everywhere – on my clothes, on my hands, in my hair and across my face where I’ve brushed my hair out of the way absentmindedly. I don’t care – it’s the artist’s lot.

I’m working for hours, and when I finally step away, I reach for my drink before anything else. I drink it all in one go, not looking at what I have created, and eventually I fall into a deep sleep at the foot of my work, praying that I won’t wake up, realising, for the first time, that tonight he abandoned me.

\---

When I wake up, because I do wake up, my feelings haven’t changed. He still abandoned me, and I still don’t hate him. I wish I could; things would be easier if I could. I can’t get the way he looked out of my head, the way he pointedly looked at the wall as they beat me, the way he refused to look at me as I was pulled from the room.

Getting to my feet, I wince as every single part of me protests the movement, my muscles aching and my skin itching with pain. Sleeping on the floor all night hasn’t helped my injuries. I massage my neck with one hand as I stretch and groan loudly.

I know the paintings are still there so I don’t turn round as I leave the room. I can’t look at them. I don’t want to see.

I really wish I hadn’t woken up.

I have no one to call; no one to turn to. No close friends to speak of – save maybe Courfeyrac and he won’t want to talk to me anyway since I assume he’s a part of whatever Enjolras is illegally doing.

My hands are shaking by the time I reach my kitchen. I desperately need a drink and immediately beginning to search through my cupboards in search of anything.

I end up sitting on the kitchen floor, drinking vodka straight from the bottle. My head leans back against the cupboard door uncomfortably and my shoulder aches every time I lift the bottle to my lips.

I hear my front door open and I cringe, expecting it to be those God-awful police-people back for more because Enjolras won’t give them what they want and-

“Grantaire?”

I look up, and Courfeyrac’s stood in my kitchen doorway with Combeferre a few steps behind him. I groan. “Keep your voice down,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“Oh, God,” Courf breathes, dropping to his knees beside me and prying the vodka bottle from my fingers. He starts fussing over me, examining my injuries and I bat him away tiredly.

Combeferre, still standing, looks worried too, but when he opens his mouth I realise it’s not for me. “Where’s Enjolras?”

I drop my gaze to the floor and stare at it as I say, “The police have him – or they did. We got arrested. He wouldn’t talk. They knew something – something _more_ – something about you guys, I guess. They…”

Courfeyrac’s hand brushes over my knee lightly. “They took it out on you till he spilled, right?”

I nod .“Right.”

Combeferre stares at me, hard. “What did they want?” When I don’t reply, he asks again, “Grantaire, I need to know what they wanted.”

I’m aware that I’m about five seconds away from crying and my lip trembles, just before I say, “What the Hell did you guys get yourselves into?”

A tears slips down my cheek and Courfeyrac makes shushing noises as he rubs my leg.

“What did they want?” Combeferre demands, sounding impatient.

“They wanted names. They wanted the names of the ‘ _after-hours Amis’.”_ I say at last. I look up, looking Combeferre straight in the eye. “They wanted _you_.”

“Fuck,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac looks up at Combeferre. “Enjolras wouldn’t talk, right? He wouldn’t _tell_.”

“You sound like a pre-schooler,” Combeferre tells him. “Of course he would, if they threatened the right thing – or person.”

I exhale heavily. “It’s my fault; they were going to kill _me_.”

Combeferre just nods, like he didn’t expect any less. “My point exactly.”

“It’s not your fault,” Courfeyrac says soothingly.

Combeferre shoots him a look immediately. “It really fucking is, but we don’t have time for this.” He looks down at me. “Get up.”

His voice is harsh, and I’ve never seen him like this before. I obey him immediately, with Courfeyrac’s help at getting up.

Combeferre looks over me, pursing his lips slightly. “Can you walk?”

I barely resist rolling my eyes as I tell him that I’ve had worse.

We’re out of my flat and on the move within minutes of that exchange and I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.

\---

We’re walking down a side street that I’ve been down a thousand times, and then through a door that I swear I’ve never noticed before. Combeferre shoots me an irritated look as we go in, but Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to be treating me any differently.

Inside, it’s a little alarming how many faces I know – how many people I’ve put at risk.

“Oh, God,” I mumble under my breath, and Courfeyrac grips my hand tightly.

Jehan’s in front of us in seconds, talking fast with Combeferre.

“As far as we know they still have him,” Combeferre is saying, “but knowing Enjolras there’s a very good chance he could have talked his way out or, worst case scenario, taken them all out.”

I blanch a little at that – what have I gotten myself into?

Jehan nods, his face grim. “We’ve got look-outs all over the city, but Combeferre, you know he’s not going to come here for a few days at least, not till he knows he doesn’t have a tail. We’ll have to go to him. He might go to his place, since he can safely assume they already know where that is, or…” Jehan glances across at me before fixing his eyes back on Combeferre, “he’ll go to Grantaire’s.” He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell which, but I’m certain it’ll be one of the two.”

Combeferre’s nodding along with what he’s saying, but all I can think is, _why would he go to mine?_

I’m shaking my head, because they’re wrong, and I have to speak up. “No,” I say, and they all turn to me. I’m still shaking my head. “No, he won’t go to mine. If he’s anywhere that’s not the police station or with the police – or whoever the fuck they were – it’ll be his place. He’s not going to be at mine.”

“Why do you think that?” Combeferre asks instantly.

I meet his eyes. “Two reasons. One: the look of complete apathy on his face when they were beating the shit out of me. Two: he’s kept me out of this for this long; he’s not going to let me get involved now.”

Courfeyrac had flinched and squeezed my hand tighter when I said my first reason, but Combeferre kept eye contact steadily.

It’s almost reassuring how strong he is staying through this. I don’t want to admit it, but it gives me hope that Enjolras won’t die.

Either that or this is how Combeferre deals with feeling fear and panic.

Combeferre turns away from me without another word, and addresses Jehan. “I want people at Enjolras’ and at Grantaire’s,” he says. “Make it Cosette and Feuilly at Enjolras’, and have Joly and Éponine at Grantaire’s.”

“He won’t be there,” I protest, irritated that my words have been so easily dismissed. “I want to find him and make sure he’s fucking alive as much as anyone, but stationing people at my place isn’t going to get that done because _he won’t be there_.” I pull my hand out of Courfeyrac’s grasp, resisting the urge to break something and really in dire need of a drink.

Combeferre levels me a stare. “If he felt apathetic, that would not have been what you would have seen on his face.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks away briskly over to where Bossuet and Joly are talking quietly.

“What the fuck did that mean?” I ask no one in particular, but the truth is I know exactly what that meant. A shiver runs down my spine. No one answers me.

Jehan and Courfeyrac are talking about something else, and all I can think about is that look of panic when I screamed at him and the exhaustion when he was telling them to let me go.

If he cared, why would he make himself seem unaffected by my being beaten up?

The answer forms in my mind without having to ask anyone.

If he made himself look like he wasn’t bothered, they’d give up. They’d find another person to use against him, or they’d torture him personally. He obviously hadn’t thought that they’d go as far as murder.

My phone in my pocket buzzes and I pull it out carefully.

His name is at the top, and I click on it, the words _get here, now_ filling the screen. The words bring about a memory, from when we first got together.

I know where he is.

I take off without a word to any of the others. 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

“I guess what scares me the most now is the thought that I won't be able to protect you.”

_― Julia Hoban, Willow_

 

He’s exactly where I thought he would be, and for a moment I think he’s not pleased to see me, because his face is a mask. He makes a fine statue. I see through it, though, fairly quickly, and his relief is palpable.

“Are you okay?” I ask, urgently, sitting down across from him in a booth in the back corner of the _Musain_.

“I’m fine, I needed to know that you were alright,” he answers and I reach for his hand across the table. He grabs it, holding onto me tightly, and I give him the best smile I can manage.

I’m still sore and injured, though the blood has stopped running, and I don’t know what I look like right now. Judging from Enjolras’ expression, it can’t be that good. “I’m fine, Enjolras.”

He looks a mess, exhausted and annoyed, and he sighs. “No, you’re not. I’m so sorry. This is my entire fault; you were never meant to get involved in this.”

I fix him with a level look. “Well, I am now. I want to know what’s going on. Combeferre and Courfeyrac took me to your… I don’t know what to call it, but it seemed top secret and really bad, Enj.”

Enjolras groans. “I told them to never take you there, God, fuck.”

“This is the problem,” I say, and squeeze his hand. “You tried to keep me out of your life, and now I’m not. You’re going to have to adjust to that.”

“Grantaire, I can’t let you get hurt.”

I laugh in disbelief and pull my hand back, gesturing to my face. “I’m already hurt, Enjolras! It’s already happened.” I shut my eyes. “You said you loved me but lied to me about who you were.” Opening my eyes again, I look directly at him. “You’ve got to let me in, Enjolras.”

Enjolras looks back at me for a long time. “Do you remember when we had that conversation about you calling me Apollo? I didn’t know who you were to me back then. But I found out. You’re Cyrene. Apollo fell in love with her and kidnapped her. He turned her into a nymph to give her eternal life.”

“How am I Cyrene?” I ask, not being able to make the connection.

“I want you to have the best life, and I’m trying to give you that,” he tries to explain. When I frown still, he says, “Grantaire, I don’t want you to die.”

Alarm courses through me, but I lean back against the wooden bench. “Are you going to die, Enjolras?” I ask, as calmly as I can.

“There’s always that possibility,” is his reply, and God, I want to slap him.

“I need you to tell me what you’re doing, and I need you to let me help, Enjolras,” I say.

“No,” he says emphatically.

“Why not?”

“Because you could get hurt!”

It’s clear at this point that he’s trying to keep his voice down, and I’m getting more agitated too.

Fixing him with a stare, I quietly ask, “Don’t you trust me?”

A sigh escapes from him and he reaches for my hand. I let him take hold of it, clutching to my fingers. “Of course I trust you. I just don’t trust myself. I wouldn’t be able to keep you safe. Look what happened to you because of me-” he gestures to my face “-that’s not even a fraction of how badly this could end.”

I grip his hand, tightly. “You have to let me in, Enjolras. Otherwise I’m going to spend every single waking moment terrified that you’re going to be gone.” He tries to pull his hand away, but I cling to it. “If I’m not there, and you get hurt, or worse, I don’t know what I’ll do. You have to let me stay by your side, Enjolras.”

“Do I have a choice?” the other man asks, and I smile just a little.

“None at all,” I tell him. He nods, slowly.

“I didn’t think so.”

Staring at each other, across the table in our little booth, we seem to have come to some sort of agreement. “So,” I say, “talk.”

He shakes his head. “Not here.” So instead of explaining to me what the Hell’s going on, he offers me his hand, and I take it. Guiding me out of the _Musain_ , he keeps our hands linked, tightly gripping onto me as though he thinks I’ll get lost or stolen should he let go.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he tugs me down the street, weaving in and out of the people blocking our path.

“Your place,” he says. “The others will be at either mine or the Hideout, so…”

I pull him to a stop and shake my head. “No, they’re at mine too. Combeferre sent Joly and Éponine.”

Cursing he looks up at the sky. “Where should we go, then? No, wait, I know. Come on.”

We’re off again, my hand still encased in his. When I work out where we’re headed, a small smile flits across my face. He doesn’t look at me once as he pulls me across town, towards the park. His walk is determined and fast, a race almost, and at times I struggle to keep up.

Walking quickly along the river, following its path to the stretch of grass where we once lay, the fear kicks in. Enjolras clearly wants to tell me this somewhere that I feel safe – first choice, my home; second choice, my favourite place.

When we get there, he pulls me into a rough hug. I lean into him, pressing my face into his neck. He says, “I’m so sorry you had to get caught up in this.”

“I’m not,” I reply.

He breathes out heavily over my head, and I pull away to look at him. He flops down onto the grass, and I follow suit. “You promised to explain,” I prompt.

He groans and buries his face in his hands. “It’s all gotten a little out of hand.” He looks up at me. “None of this was meant to happen, and I want to make that clear before I tell you what’s going on. This, right now, is just clean up. We made a big mistake, and things got… messy.”

Taking hold of his hands, I pull myself a little closer. “What have you done, Enjolras?”

“What do you know about Claudia Duvert?”

“Mme. Duvert? The Prime Minister’s wife?”

Enjolras smiles, ruefully. “That’s the one.” His hands are still intertwined in mine.

“What’s she got to do with all this?”

“This is your last chance to walk away from this,” he says, instead. “You can walk away now and you don’t have to be involved.”

“And never see you again?” Enjolras nods so I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see his uncertainty scrawled across his pretty face. “She tried to assassinate the Prime Minister.” He must see my shock because he pulls a face and nods. “I know, right? Shocker.”

“But- But, she’s- Everyone _loves_ her,” I say. “She’s like… Like the Princess Diana of French politics.” He pulls a face at my phrasing. “How is this not national news?” I ask, my voice coming out hushed.

“Because of me,” Enjolras says and my mouth drops open.

“What does that even mean? How can this be because of you?”

He groans again and avoids making eye contact with me. “I’m Duvert’s unofficial right-hand man.”

That shocks a laugh out of me. “ _You_?” I ask, incredulously. “You _hate_ the government!”

A bitter expression crosses his face. “God, I know I do. This way, however, I’m effectively making that asshole’s decisions for him.”

“So how come you still hate the way things are?” I ask.

“Because there’s only so much I can do, and even if he asks my opinion, he doesn’t always listen.” Enjolras sighs. “Okay, it started like this:

“I’ve known Henri Duvert since we were kids; my family are very upper class and we went to nursery school together, and then all the way through till high school. We weren’t best friends, or anything, but he and I were occasionally _close_ , if you catch my drift.

“We didn’t see each other for a long time after that, but my parents still move in the same circles, and when he got appointed as Prime Minister, I was thrown back into his life.

“I don’t really know how else to say it. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and I wanted things to change so I got close to him. I know how attractive I am, and I know what he thinks about me. It was easy. I’m not proud of it, but it got to the point where we were having an affair. He trusted me, and he began to ask for my assistance, which I gladly gave. We stopped sleeping together, but his wife, Claudia, found out about the affair, and to put it simply, she was not happy.

“So she tried to have him killed. We stopped her, and I convinced Duvert to not make a public thing of it – only because it would backfire, bringing to light his affair with me. It would be bad for his reputation; no one likes an unfaithful husband, and one that’s unfaithful in order to fuck a man is even worse.

“Those people that threatened your life to learn about Les Amis? They’re Claudia’s people. She’s incredibly powerful and also very pissed off.

“Everything has spun completely out of control, R, and we’re trying to pull the reigns back. We’re planning an out, because it’s looking less and less likely that Claudia will back down. She moved out of her home with Duvert, though he’s keeping up the appearance that they’re still together.

“It’s no longer simply about the affair – we’re fairly sure she wanted him _out_ long before she had an excuse. She gains nothing by being his wife, but through his death she gains a lot. Her issue is that he has us protecting him currently, and we’re very good at what we do.

“My friends, Les Amis, are highly trained in the art of, well, let’s call it combat.” He smirks. “We’re essentially a protection service. Only, we choose who we protect.”

I interrupt him. “Combeferre said that you might have ‘taken them all out’ in order to escape. Did you?”

Thankfully, he shakes his head. “No. I desperately try not to harm people. Unless it’s absolutely necessary, in most cases it’s not, I will do my utmost to avoid killing. Some people in my group are less stringent about that – Éponine, for example.”

Nodding, I keep my eyes fixed on him. This is nothing that I could have imagined. It’s simultaneously nowhere near as bad, and so much worse, than I could have dreamt.

“She can’t move against us,” Enjolras then says. “Not without so much more information than she has. Clearly, however, she knows about you. I was trying so fucking hard to keep you out of this, and keep you safe, that I didn’t notice how easy it would have been for her to find out.

“She’s so dangerous, R.”

“Yes,” I say, “I think I’m getting that impression.”

“Do you at least understand why I wanted to keep you out of this?” he asks me, almost pleading with me to understand.

I do. Oh God, I really do understand. I imagine our places reversed, and I know without a doubt that I would not have wanted him involved. Still, I say, “I wish you had told me sooner.”

He looks at the ground, seeming a little ashamed. “I’m so sorry for lying to you. Please, forgive me, I was only trying to keep you out of harm.”

“It’s okay, Apollo,” I say, lifting his chin with my fingers and making him look at him.

He smiles, though he looks deeply regretful of something, and he says, “Thank you,” adding, “Cyrene,” with a small grin after.

As I press my lips to his I’m eternally grateful that I can still do so. “Don’t die,” I request of him.

“You either,” he responds. Then he cracks a genuine smile. “Courfeyrac is going to be thrilled that I told you; he’s wanted to let you know since the beginning.”

“I don’t think Combeferre likes me,” I admit as Enjolras gets to his feet, offering a hand to pull me up too. 

Enjolras just laughs. “Nonsense,” he says, but when I give him a sharp look, he adds, “okay, so maybe he thinks you’re a distraction.”

As I roll my eyes at him he twists our fingers together, and he pulls me in to give me a kiss. I press our foreheads together and whisper, “Well, I am pretty good at that.”

“You’re more than a distraction,” he says, seriously. “I am so in love with you.”

That makes me smile. “Thank God,” I say and he huffs a little laugh.

He presses his hands to the sides of my face. “R, I want to explain my actions back when they were hurting you.”

“Not necessary,” I interrupt. “I know why you did what you did. You thought that if you acted like you didn’t care, they’d think that it was going to get them nowhere and stop.”

“Oh, thank God,” he mumbles, pulling me into another hug. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I let them hurt you.”

I don’t say that it’s okay, because, really, it’s not, but I don’t tell him that I’m angry either, because I’m sure that he wouldn’t have hurt me if there were any other way. I just let him hug me, taking comfort in the fact that he’s here in my arms. Less than a few hours ago I was convinced he didn’t love me, and that all we had were lies.

“You ready to face the others?” Enjolras asks me, and hesitantly, I nod. He pulls his phone from his pocket, letting go of me. He dials a number and when they pick up, all he asks is, “Where’s safe?” There’s a short pause, and then he hangs up. Looking back to me with a warm smile, he offers his hand. “Let’s go.”

As we walk, the nerves and fear start to build again, a growing sense of anxiety that I can’t seem to shake. He’s told me, now, and I’m in whether I’m scared or not, but I still can’t be sure that he’s telling me the truth. Or, the whole truth.

He’s lied to me before, easily and without a single clue that he was.

I just cling to his hand, feeling like a helpless child following their guardian and let him lead me on.

Is he leading me on? He loves me, I’m sure. At least I think I am. What is his endgame, here? He says they’re planning to get out, but what was my part in that exit? Was he going to leave me behind, or try to find an excuse to convince me to follow him? (I would have. Without a doubt.)

Am I ever going to be sure of anything he says, now? Will I ever be able to tell the difference between his truths and his lies?

Somehow we end up climbing the stairs to an apartment that I’ve never been to before. It’s dirty, the walls covered in graffiti and less artistic scribbles. Cigarette butts litter the floor and I’m almost sure that I see a needle or two left in the hallway.

When Enjolras knocks on a door – 202 – I hold his hand a little tighter. “What’s going on?” I whisper. He just squeezes my hand back in a way that is undeniably comforting, though offers little substance.

The door swings open, revealing the last person I ever expected to see, and I blurt out, “What the fuck.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Montparnasse responds in his slow, easy drawl, and then steps back to allow room for us to pass. “Well, come on in, gents. R, don’t touch anything. E, try not to dirty your pretty hands.”

Enjolras drags me inside as I spit the words, “How the _fuck_ do you know Montparnasse?”

“I feel I should ask you the same,” Enjolras replies, dropping my hand and going over to a set of drawers, pulling open the top drawer and withdrawing a laptop. He then goes to sit on the sofa, opening the laptop and turning it on as I stand there, spluttering.

“He’s a dealer- I- How-?” I try to ask, staring at Enjolras who seems utterly at home here.

Beside me, Montparnasse sighs. “I’m a connection,” Montparnasse explains. “A route to the ‘underworld’. I know people, places, _things_.”

I groan and resist whacking Enjolras over the back of his head. “What are you doing, Enj?”

“I’m messaging Combeferre. The others should be here soon.”

“Others?” Montparnasse asks. “Hold up. You’re not having a little get together in my living room.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother looking over. “Relax, Jehan will buy some weed or something.”

Montparnasse responds by way of a world-weary sigh. “You know fuck all about drugs, E.”

Enjolras considers that for a moment. “Correct.”

I’m just hovering behind the sofa that Enjolras is sitting on, not at all wanting to sit down. Montparnasse wanders out of the room, grumbling under his breath, most likely about Enjolras. Eventually Enjolras turns around on the sofa to face me, one eyebrow arched. “What?” he demands.

“I don’t like this, Enj,” I reply. Being here, in a drug dealer’s home, with Enjolras, feels wrong. I’d not seen Montparnasse since I quit – until those moments in that cell with him yesterday. Now I’ve seen him twice in two days and am currently in his flat, a place that apparently Enjolras frequents. “You don’t use, do you?”

I’m almost positive that Enjolras isn’t a user; he just doesn’t look like an addict. Even so, I’m a little relieved when he shakes his head. “Of course not. Look, Parnasse is a useful contact; nothing more. Honestly, I’m more interested in how _you_ know him.”

I give him a flat look for that. “Really? Can’t work it out?”

He pulls a face. “I was hoping otherwise.”

“I used to. I quit over a year ago. Not a fun experience, quitting. I wouldn’t advise taking up the habit. Luckily I had alcohol to fall back on, and look at me: a wonderful, completely healthy individual.”

He looks quite guilty, and he asks, “Are you okay here?”

I shrug. “I’m fine. Just don’t offer me anything, and if Jehan’s gonna be smoking up, don’t let him while I’m here. Weed’s not so bad but I’d rather not.”

He leans over the back of the sofa, holding out his hand, and I take it. He pulls me forwards and kneels up so that he can kiss me. “As soon as we can,” he promises, “we’ll be out of here.”

I give him a thankful smile and reward him with another kiss. Someone behind us wolf-whistles and I pull back, gritting my teeth as Montparnasse saunters back into the room. “When you mentioned Enjolras yesterday, I didn’t realise the affections were returned. Enjolras, you lucky man.”

Enjolras frowns in confusion and I quickly explain that Montparnasse was in my cell yesterday. Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, but the door swings open then, revealing Courfeyrac and Jehan who grin widely.

“Parnasse!” Jehan greets, throwing themself into the man’s arms. It’s odd to see the soft look that flits across the dealer’s face as he looks down at the other person.

“Hey, J,” Montparnasse responds as Courfeyrac brushes past them, straight over to me.

I’m enveloped in Courfeyrac’s arms as he squeals. “I’m so glad you know!” he cries. I can’t help but laugh at how overjoyed he is, and when I catch a glance of Enjolras he raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘I told you so’. Courfeyrac drops his arms and turns to Enjolras, his expression falling straight into a professional one. “Duvert wants to speak with you.”

Enjolras groans and rubs at his eyes. “I don’t have the time.”

“Make the time,” Courfeyrac says, instantly, looking fairly unimpressed.

“Do we know what he wants?”

“Not yet. Combeferre’s on it, but honestly it would be easier if you called him.”

Enjolras sighs. “Alright. I’m on it.” Getting to his feet, he pulls out his phone and heads for a different room. He gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek as he goes. I lean up against a wall as he leaves and take three deep breaths, trying to calm myself down.

“How’re you holding up?” Jehan asks me.

“Considering what I just found out about my boyfriend, pretty well, actually.” I chew on my lip and stare at the opposite wall. “Can I just ask one thing? About- about the affair?”

“It was before he met you,” Courfeyrac says immediately, anticipating my question. My eyes find him, looking for any sign that he’s lying to me. If he’s as good as Enjolras, there’s no way of knowing. He seems genuine, and he holds my gaze. “The affair was a while ago and it ended before he met you.”

I nod, slowly. “Okay.” My hands are starting to shake, and I’m not sure how long my legs are going to hold me up for. Anticipating my collapse, I slide down the wall to the floor, and bury my face in my hands. Someone comes to sit next to me. “Just-” I start. “Just don’t lie to me, anymore. Because I don’t know what’s real at this point.”

The person sitting next to me – Jehan – takes my hand and rubs comforting circles on it. “I promise you that we’ll tell you the truth, unless it’s absolutely necessary that we don’t. For your safety, or for ours.”

I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.

I let Jehan hold my hand as we sit there. After a while, a few others arrive. Cosette’s there, looking deadly serious and fierce as she passes straight through the room, after Enjolras, but Joly and Marius stay with us. They both look concerned, directing worried looks at me.

I begin to shake again, unable to control my own body, and Jehan pulls me in closer, curving their body around me a little, protectively. It’s getting hard for me to breathe. How have I ended up in this mess?

Enjolras comes back into his room with Cosette, and even being able to see him can’t calm me at present. He begins to talk, but I can barely concentrate on what he’s saying. A tear slips down my cheek and my entire body is trembling. Jehan starts to whisper soothing things to me, telling me it’s alright, and that’s when Enjolras notices me.

He breaks off, mid-word, and crosses the room, dropping to his knees in front of me. “R? Grantaire?” he takes my hands in his, squeezing them. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, Grantaire, it’s okay. I’m here. We’re safe.” He continues to talk calmly to me, clearly not at all bothered that everyone in the room is watching us. “Grantaire, look at me, yes, that’s good. Look, we’re both safe. Both of us are completely fine. See? I’ve got you, R. It’s all okay.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I manage to whisper.

“I know, love, I know. I’m going to be fine. You have to trust me.”

Our eyes are locked on each other, and slowly, I nod. “I trust you.”

“That’s good,” he replies. “I love you, R.”

I drag him into a hug, one hand holding the back of his head, holding him close. He wraps his arms around my waist, hugging me back. “I love you, too,” I whisper, fiercely.

He pulls away to give me a brilliant smile. Helping me to my feet, he keeps an arm around me as he turns back to the others to carry on telling them what’s happening. I don’t take my eyes off of him.

It takes me a while to catch up with what he’s saying, but when I do, I’m nothing short of horrified.

“Enjolras, no,” I say, shock probably written on every line of my face.

He sighs, softly. “Grantaire…” he says, a warning in his voice.

“You are _not_ meeting with Mme. Duvert,” I hiss at him. “That is out of the question.”

“This isn’t up for debate, Grantaire,” he replies.

Courfeyrac steps forwards. “Grantaire, he won’t be alone. We’ll be watching him the entire time. He won’t be unprotected.”

“Fine. Then I’m going too,” I answer, angrily.

“No!” Enjolras shouts, rounding on me.

“This is non-negotiable, Enjolras,” I snap. “You’re not going in there without me.”

“It’s not happening,” he asserts. “You have no training in self-defence, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a chance this could go wrong.”

“Yes,” he shouts. “Of course there is.”

A long heavy moment of silence follows his words, and I stare up at him. “Enjolras,” I beg, “please don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he says, in a final way. I cling to his arm, attempting to plead with him. He shakes his head. “Grantaire, stop.”

Stumbling back a few paces, away from him, I rub my face with my hands. He’s going to get himself killed. “What happened to getting out? Why can’t you just leave?”

“If the worst comes to the worst-” he starts, but I interrupt.

“If the worst comes to the worst you’ll be _dead_ , Enjolras!” I look at him in despair. “You promised. You promised me you wouldn’t die.”

The silence in the room is almost unbearable.

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

For a moment, I think he might refuse, but slowly, he nods. He looks at Joly. “Make sure he gets home safe. Don’t leave him.” Then, after a moment of thought, looks to Jehan also. “You go, too.”

Courfeyrac throws a look at him. “You’re not going?”

“No,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t look at me once as Joly and Jehan take my arms and lead me out of the flat. Montparnasse calls a kind goodbye to Jehan, and a less kind one to me. Lucky Joly doesn’t get an address.

As we walk down the stairs, I’m relying more and more heavily on the other two to keep me on my feet. Everything feels wrong. Mixed up. Confused.

“He’s going to be alright, Grantaire,” Jehan says as they manhandle me into a car. “He knows what he’s doing. He’s not an amateur.”

I don’t have a response in me, so I sit the entire car journey in silence. My world is rapidly spinning out of control, for the second time since Enjolras entered it. First, he changed my entire way of living, made me long for more. He took me away from the clutches of loneliness and a life of misery. Now, he’s towing me straight into a complete disaster. Now, he’s a criminal, or something to a similar effect. He could die, and now I know it.

Somehow, we get up into my apartment. There’s no sign that anyone was in here earlier, though I know that they were, save for the empty coffee mugs drying on the drainer.

Flopping onto my sofa and tucking my legs up, I stare up at the other two. “Please, don’t let him do something this reckless.”

Jehan gives me a sympathetic look, while Joly grimaces. “Sorry,” Joly says.

I sink into the cushions on my sofa, but pretty quickly decide I can’t bear to be sitting still. As I get to my feet, I hear Jehan gasp and I whirl round to follow his gaze.

My paintings from earlier are still leaning up against the wall, where I left them, and seeing them now is a whole new kind of torture. “Don’t look at that shit,” I mutter, shoving past Jehan and Joly, heading for my studio. I need to draw, though what I’m going to draw is a little uncertain in my mind.

I fall into my chair in my studio and grab a piece of paper, doing nothing more than drawing patterns around and around the paper.

“Oh, Grantaire,” I head Jehan say softly behind me. I know what they’re thinking. My drawings of Enjolras are everywhere in this Goddamn room. I truly am pathetic in love.

“Don’t,” I say, not taking my eyes of the swirls that are forming in front of me. They come to sit next to me, only on the floor, looking up at me with worried eyes.

“He cares about you,” Jehan says, sincerely. “He really does. It’s the only reason he pushes you away and lies to you.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me,” I tell them.

“He’s trying to take care of you, Grantaire,” Jehan insists. “He has to protect you. It’s all he knows.”

“Well tell him to protect me in a way that doesn’t make me feel fucking useless,” I snap, immediately feeling guilty as Jehan’s face falls.

I hadn’t noticed Joly come in the room, but from behind, he then says, “I’m sorry, Grantaire. He doesn’t mean to make you feel useless. The problem is that this is bigger than you. You aren’t a member of Les Amisthough you are a valued friend. We have to protect you, because we know that you can’t protect yourself against this.”

I look up at him, and I want to tell him that I’m not a child, but at the same time I know that they are only trying to help.

“We don’t want you to get hurt just because Enjolras fell in love with you.”

I flinch away at that, looking back down at my hands that have stopped sketching.

Joly holds one hand out to me, and the other to Jehan, helping us to our feet. “Come on,” he says, gently. “I’ll make us some hot chocolate, and then we’ll put on a movie and await word from Enjolras.”

I just about manage a smile.

When Enjolras finally shows up, I’m almost feeling relaxed, with Jehan and Joly curled up on either side of me, more like lapdogs than guard dogs. All three of us jump when the door swings open and Enjolras strides into the room.

“Joly, Jehan, out,” he says, rationally and calmly, not taking his eyes off me. The pair leave the room. I swallow and wait for Enjolras to speak. “Here’s what I can offer you,” he says, at last. “Joly, Bossuet, and Combeferre, amongst others, will be monitoring me on cameras when I go in for that meeting. I will not under any circumstances allow you to come with me, but you can join them.”

My jaw tightens. “Well, thank you for that high honour.”

He grimaces. “Grantaire, do not be difficult about this. This meeting has to happen; it’s our last chance for peace.”

“Peace?” I laugh, mockingly. “Yes, I can certainly see how that’s likely to happen.” Anger slowly fills me at the thought of having to stand and watch him on a screen. If something were to happen, there would be nothing that I could do but watch. Does he not see how awful that would be for me?

All he does is stand there, the perfect picture of apathy. When did he learn not to show his feelings? Why did he end up the way that he is? Is there anyone that can read him, or is he doomed to be an enigma to everyone that he meets for all his life?

“This is the only alternative to not being involved at all that I can give you,” he states, collectedly. “Do you want it, or not?”

“I don’t know, Enjolras,” I yell. “I just don’t know anymore!”

“You don’t know what?” he asks, his face a fine statue. “You don’t know if you love me?”

“Of course I love you,” I scream, desperate for him to feel something. “I just don’t know if I can trust you. You. Lied. To me. How can I know whether you’re telling the truth or not, anymore? How am I supposed to separate the lies from the truths? Where do I draw the line? Do I even know you? Is anything that you told me true?”

He just stares back at me, impassive. “I didn’t lie to you,” he says, at last. “I just omitted certain truths.”

“That’s the same thing,” I snap at him.

“No it’s not,” he replies. How can he remain so calm? How can he be so utterly relaxed, with a storm raging around the two of us? “To lie would have been to create this whole other persona, someone with a day job, parents who mean something, maybe hopes and dreams that aren’t mine. Omitting truths was letting you know me, but keeping you out of danger. It’s very different, Grantaire.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

He sighs heavily, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not sure I can stand and watch you walk to your death without being by your side,” I tell him.

That seems to get through to him, and I watch as his carefully put-together mask crumbles a little. He steps towards me, hands reaching out, with sadness clear in his eyes. “Grantaire,” he says softly. I tremble as he puts his hands on my cheeks, gazing straight into my eyes. “I’m coming back. I’m not leaving you. Every soldier in France couldn’t stop me from getting to you.”

I let out an undignified whimper.

“Grantaire,” he says, “you have to believe that I don’t want you getting hurt. You can understand that, surely.”

“Of course I understand that. But surely you must understand that I can’t bear the thought of you waltzing right into Claudia Duvert’s hands.”

“I understand that, R. It still has to be done, though. So, are you going to worry with the others, or are you going to worry alone?”


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

“To hear the phrase “our only hope” always makes one anxious, because it means that if the only hope doesn’t work, there is nothing left.”

_― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book_

 

My nails are chewed down to the quick. My foot keeps tapping the floor. People keep sending me irritated looks.

Eventually, Marius breaks. “Will someone get him to calm down?” he asks, with a desperate look at Joly and Bossuet. He’s trying to do something involving wires that I’ve no chance of understanding, and evidently, my anxiety is frustrating him.

“I don’t think there’s much hope in that endeavour,” Combeferre replies with something close to a laugh. He keeps tapping away on a keyboard.

“Would anybody like some coffee?” Cosette asks, waltzing into the room and appearing calm as anything. It’s almost annoying, but mostly, it’s quite soothing.

“Please,” I say, getting to my feet in order to help her.

“You’re not having any,” she answers. “You can have water, though. Coffee’s just going to make you more anxious, and I think you’re going to give Marius a nervous breakdown already with all your tapping.”

I groan but don’t bother arguing with her – you can’t win against Cosette in an argument, I’m already learning. She quickly counts off who wants coffee versus who wants tea on her fingers and I follow her through to the little kitchen.

Cosette Fauchelevent is a little bubble of general happiness, I’ve discovered. She has a quick tongue and is very good at getting what she wants. In the few days that I’ve been camped out with the group in their ‘Hideout’, as they call it, I’ve seen her manipulate almost every single person in here. The only people seemingly immune to her wondrous power over people are Jehan and Combeferre.

Enjolras was with us, up until this morning – the morning of the meeting – and since he left I’ve been a little on edge and erratic. He’s currently God knows where, preparing for the meeting with Courfeyrac, who’s going in with him.

I’d managed to convince Enjolras that going in alone was suicide, and suggested that, since Courfeyrac and Claudia move in similar circles on occasion and he’s highly trained, he would be a sensible choice.

Most of the others are moving out soon, all three of the girls along with Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan will be stationed nearby, surrounding the area in which Enjolras and Claudia will come face to face.

I’ll be staying here with Joly, Bossuet, Marius, and Combeferre to monitor the screens and provide backup for the others via ear pieces. (Well, Joly, Bossuet, Marius, and Combeferre will be doing that. I’ll more or less be staring avidly at whichever screen features Enjolras and trying not to go out of my mind with worry.)

Cosette bustles about the kitchen, humming under her breath. She’s dressed head to toe in a tight black outfit, perfect for hand to hand combat and climbing up buildings, which I’m told she specialises in. It’s quite a contrast, the gear and the mother-like way she makes the drinks.

“Cosette?” I ask, hesitantly. She looks over at me, part way through pouring water into a mug. “Don’t let him die.”

Her face softens, but she gives a little eye roll. “Of course not. Do you think I’d let him go in there if I didn’t completely trust our team to get him out? Do you think _Combeferre_ would let him go in there?”

Oddly enough, that’s the first time I’ve truly felt comforted since they agreed this plan was going ahead. I smile at her, and say, “Thanks, Cosette.”

She sets about loading up a tray of coffees and a tray of teas before handing me the coffees. “Go on, hand these out. I’ll get you your water.”

I grumble again at her insistence that I drink water, though I know that she’s right. When I get back into the ‘control room’ as I have taken to mockingly calling it, I find Éponine lacing up her boots and talking to none other than Enjolras, on what seems to be some kind of _Skype_ call on a laptop.

“We’ll be backing you up the whole time,” she’s saying. “If you need out, you know the signal. Otherwise, we’re following Combeferre’s orders. If he sends us in, we go in, irrelevant of what you say.”

I set about handing out the coffees, people thanking me for it quietly (oh, God, I’m the coffee boy), while I not so subtly eavesdrop on Enjolras and Éponine’s conversation.

“No,” Enjolras says, “that is not what we agreed. Combeferre makes a call, and then you wait for whether I agree or not.”

“Enjolras,” Éponine says, her tone filled with command. “I’m not taking your shit today. The whole team is nervous as fuck sending you and Courfeyrac in there. If there’s a sign of trouble we’re getting you out.”

I’m quite relieved that Éponine said that. It’s nice to know that the others aren’t so willing to throw his life around, as he seems to be.

“I will not have you jeopardise-” he begins.

Éponine cuts him off. “ _I_ will not have you jeopardise your _life_ , Enjolras!”

“Ép, this is important,” he says, irritably.

“So are you,” she responds instantly. “Listen up rich kid, you do as we say or you don’t go in at all.”

As I pass a mug of coffee to Combeferre, I can see a smirk forming on the man’s face as he listens to Éponine tell Enjolras what’s what.

I hear Enjolras sigh and repress a smirk of my own. Then I hear him say, “Fine, fine. Is Grantaire there?”

I jerk upright, looking over to Éponine and almost spilling the couple of mugs still on my tray. “Uh huh,” she’s saying, looking over to me. “R, get over here.”

I balance the tray of coffees on top of a pile of books that seem to bear no relevance to anything currently happening, and make my way over to her. She gets up as I arrive, giving me space to talk to Enjolras with as much privacy as they can.

Enjolras face lights up in a smile as I sit down and, ruefully, I smile back. “Hey there, Apollo,” I say.

“Hey there, Cyrene,” he replies. “How are you?”

“Terrified and yet somehow incredibly bored,” I respond honestly. “They’ve got me playing waiter. I’m serving _coffees_ , Enjolras. I’m literally the coffee boy. Let’s just say I really am feeling the height of my usefulness.”

Enjolras pulls a disapproving face at my complaining, and Joly calls over, “It’s fucking good coffee, R.”

I yell back, “Cosette made it. I’m not even that good. I just walk around.”

Joly just laughs in response to that and goes back to whatever he was doing.

Cosette flounces over to me at that point, to press a glass of water into my hand before gliding away. I raise my glass to the screen in a toast. “Good luck, Enj. Please, again, don’t die.”

“I have no intentions of dying today,” he promises me and I want to groan at his choice of phrasing.

“Or any day soon,” I remind him, and he nods.

“Right. That.”

I roll my eyes at him.

Musichetta calls out across the room then, “Alright people, drink your fucking coffee we need to hit the road.”

I laugh, turning back to Enjolras. “I must say, I love the professionalism in this place. It’s nice.”

“Oh, yes, we run a tight ship with a clear chain of command. My favourite part is the way no one can give a fucking order without swearing.”

I chuckle, but then our conversation gets interrupted by Courfeyrac, appearing on camera at Enjolras’ end. “Enj, we gotta go get ready for the meeting.”

Enjolras glances at me, and disappointment courses through me. “Alright, let’s go. See you, R.”

“Yeah, Enj, I-”

The feed cuts off and I sigh heavily.

“I love you,” I finish, staring at the blank screen. “Stay safe.”

Someone sits down next to me, and I glance sideways to see Joly just before he wraps his arms around me. Joly rests his chin on my shoulder, looking at me seriously. “He loves you too, and I’d say that he won’t do anything reckless, but that’s a lie. What I will say is that he’ll do whatever he can to make it back to you.”

“It’s okay,” I lie. “You don’t need to comfort me.”

“Sure I do,” Joly answers with a smile. “Heck, we all need comfort right now.” He glances across at Combeferre. “You probably can’t tell because you don’t know him all that well, but I promise you, Combeferre’s just as freaked as you. That’s both his best friends, including his boyfriend, going in there today. He’s terrified. The only difference is that he has a lot more trust in us lot as a team than you do.”

I give him a warm smile. “Thanks, Joly.”

“No problem,” he replies. Then he gets to his feet. “I’m just going to go give Bossuet a hand with that,” he tells me, motioning at where Bossuet seems to be frowning at some kind of wire.

I sit back and watch everyone get on with their individual jobs. Éponine and Musichetta are stretching, while Bahorel takes apart and cleans his guns. Bossuet is inspecting the ends of a wire while Joly pulls a different one out of a box and hands it to him, wordlessly. Cosette is sitting in silence near Marius while he works, but one of her hands is resting on his knee, and every now and then he shoots her small smiles that betray how worried he is for her. Combeferre is working away without a single word to anyone.

I get up and go sit by Combeferre. Of all the people in this room, he’s the one that understands the most. Joly’s right. We both lose the same thing if today goes badly.

Combeferre shoots me a look when I sit down, but he keeps working. I have no idea what he’s doing, but I’m sure it’s important. I don’t expect him to talk.

“I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you,” Combeferre says, and I look at him in surprise.

“The way you’ve treated me?” I question. “You’ve been nice to me.”

“No, I haven’t,” he says. “The day after you and Enjolras got arrested I was awful. I blamed you. I shouldn’t have.” He turns to plug something into his laptop, but then looks back at me. “I’m still not sure if you and Enjolras are good for each other, but I know that I don’t have the right to comment. He loves you, you love him. That’s good enough for me. I’m a little concerned that you distract him too much, but again, that’s not an opinion that I have the right to give. After all, I’m with Courfeyrac.”

I smile at him. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

When Éponine makes the call for the group to move out, I start to get nervous again. Mostly, I’m scared for Enjolras, but there’s a big part of me that doesn’t want any of these people to get hurt. Not Courfeyrac, with his enthusiasm and cheer; not Éponine, with her no-nonsense attitude; not Cosette, with her sweet smile that almost makes you fear for your life; not Jehan, who’s just a walking, talking contradiction. None of them.

Joly comes to sit next to me as they head out, offering his hand for me to hold. I cling to it.

“Deep breaths,” he mutters.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” I bite back.

He smiles, a little ruefully.

A little while later, Combeferre lets out a small cheer as all the screens around us light up, showing images from cameras around the meeting area. Some of them are black-and-white, security camera that apparently the group have tapped into, others are clearer, in colour, that they’ve put in place personally. In addition to the stationary cameras, Enjolras and Courfeyrac both have hidden cameras on their chests, and so do the back-up group. Those are less easy to watch, a little bit of motion sickness involved there.

The other four I’m sat with have radios to keep in touch with the others. Combeferre’s talking to Enjolras right now. It’s a good thing they didn’t give me one; I don’t think I’d be able to stop babbling nervously.

The back-up start chiming in their positions.

“Alright, I’m good to go,” Éponine says.

“In position,” Bahorel says, Jehan echoing him a moment later.

“I have visual,” Musichetta informs us – we can see through her camera that she has a clear view through a window of the meeting point.

“I’m good,” Cosette says.

Feuilly’s the last, finally saying, “Sorry for the delay. I’m here.”

“Alright guys,” Combeferre says, “provided that the meeting point does not get shifted around, this should go swimmingly. In the case that Claudia tries something clever, just do your best to follow undetected. I trust you guys to know what you’re doing. Keep her in your sights, and do not for one second let Enjolras or Courfeyrac go somewhere where you cannot protect them.

“As we know, Duvert has instructed us not to kill Claudia, however if she directly puts Enjolras or Courfeyrac’s lives at risk I will not hesitate to give that order.”

My fingers are itching to start tapping again, especially now that Joly has had to let go of my hand to work. I resist the temptation, taking deep breaths and focusing on the screen that I know is Enjolras’ camera. It doesn’t let me see him, but I can see his movement. He and Courfeyrac are heading for the meeting point together. They both have guns and knives, though we know that they are likely to get stripped of their weapons upon arrival.

“Any last advice, Ferre?” Courfeyrac’s voice comes through.

Combeferre smiles a little. “Stay alive.”

We hear Enjolras huff a little laugh.

I chew my lip at stare at the screen intently.

“Alright, we’re approaching our destination. We won’t be talking directly to you from now on,” Enjolras says. As he says the words, the two of them appear on a different screen.

“Got it. We have visual on you and don’t forget to call in for back-up if and when you need it. That’s what they’re there for, Enj,” Combeferre reminds him. On screen we can see Enjolras roll his eyes. The corner of my mouth twitches upwards momentarily.

“Fuck me,” I mutter. “I don’t know if my nerves can take this.”

“I’m willing to knock you out,” Marius offers, and honestly I don’t know if he’s joking or not.

“No, thank you,” I reply, and I see him hide a smile.

On a different camera, in the correct place, we see Claudia arrive, surrounded by an entourage of sorts. “They’re in position,” Combeferre informs Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “She’s brought approximately ten men that we can see.”

They’re getting closer, and my heart rate is climbing. When both groups are on the same screen, my heart almost stops. Claudia’s voice sounds out into the Hideout and I shiver.

“Enjolras,” she greets. “You didn’t come alone.”

“Neither did you,” Enjolras replies. “I’m sure you won’t begrudge me one man against ten, Mme. Duvert.”

“Don’t. Call. Me that,” she growls at him. Then she smiles. She’s all over this place, this woman, and I can see plainly why Enjolras thinks she’s so dangerous. “‘Claudia’ is fine.” She clicks at one of her men and points at Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “Search them. Remove their weapons.”

I tense as one of the heavily armed men grabs Enjolras, patting him down rather roughly. Enjolras keeps his head held high, barely reacting as his guns and knives are taken from him. By his side, Courfeyrac is getting the same treatment.

The camera that shows me their front is grainy and generally not very good, irritatingly. I can see a fairly clear side-view, however, so I focus on that camera. My hand tightens on the arm of my chair.

“Grantaire, I must ask you to calm down,” Bossuet says, turning away from his radio so that the sound doesn’t carry through so well. Even so, we see Enjolras twitch, ever-so-slightly, on camera. I wince.

“Working on it,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I have a clear shot on Claudia,” Éponine’s voice announces at that point, “with plenty of movement room. Enjolras and Courfeyrac, try not to block her. I’m at her five o’clock.”

“I also have a shot on her,” Bahorel says. “Her nine o’clock.”

“Don’t take the shot unless worst comes to worst,” Combeferre says, as if it weren’t evident.

“Well obviously, darling,” Éponine replies, something akin to humour in her voice.

“Take this seriously, Ép,” Marius says.

“Believe me, I am.”

“Will you be quiet?” Joly demands. “I’m _trying_ to listen to Claudia!”

“-with you, Enjolras.” Grantaire catches the end of Claudia’s sentence, being shocked back to reality. “First, you fuck my husband. Second, no wait; that’s really all I’m pissed at you about.” She tilts her head. “I thought you were a man of integrity.”

“Is it my fault you couldn’t keep your husband… _satisfied_?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre warns, speaking quietly, “this is not about your abilities in bed.”

“Anyway,” Enjolras continues, “we both know full well that neither of us really wanted him. You saw a fast track to getting rich; I saw a way to change our country.”

“He has to die,” Claudia hisses.

“That’s not happening,” Enjolras tells her, calmly.

She laughs, the amusement in it falling flat. “Try and stop me.”

“Already have,” Enjolras reminds her. “I will again. Henri is under our protection and I’ll be damned if I let you anywhere near him.”

I twist my fingers together, turning my hands round and round, twitching and unable to stay still.

“Thought you didn’t care about him,” she says with a slight chuckle. Teasing him. Taunting him. 

“I care about our country,” he says, honestly. “If he goes down, I lose all the influence that I have.”

“Yes, and I get rich. The way I see it it’s a win-win scenario.” She grins at him, wickedly, leaning forwards just a little. “We don’t want you running the country, Enjolras. We didn’t vote for you.”

I can tell that Enjolras wants to pace as he talks, and only the message from Éponine earlier is keeping him still. “I’m still trying to work out your angle,” he says, quite clearly playing for time. “It can’t all be for money. You legally have his money already, simply by being his wife. Why are you so keen to catch me and my group out for something illegal? Why not just assassinate us? Get us out the way.”

She glares at him and he tilts his head to the side, observing her, curiously.

“I just don’t get it, Claudia.”

She paces towards him, and we hear a few of our back-up group curse under their breaths. When she’s stood right in front of him, she lifts a hand to delicately trace along his jawline with a finger. I sit forwards in my seat, every cell in my body focussed on the scene we’re witnessing.

“I’m sorry about hurting your boyfriend,” she says at last. Enjolras flinches, visibly, and she starts to laugh again. She sounds much clearer now that she’s up against him, her voice coming through both the cameras and his radio. “It was nice of you to develop an attachment; makes it so much easier for us to get to your weaknesses.

“What’s his name?” she asks. “Oh, yes, _Grantaire_.”

He bats her hand away from his face. “Don’t talk about him,” he all but growls.

On screen, Courfeyrac is casting worried looks at Enjolras, seeming unsure as to whether he should step in or not.

She bites her lip. “Ooh, touchy.” She leers at him. “We’re going to get him,” she whispers. “Then we’re going to get your friends. Then, I’ll get you. After that, my husband doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, his voice clearly strained. “What’s your endgame here, Claudia?”

“Why do I have to have a reason?” she asks, lifting her hands in a questioning fashion as she turns and wanders away from him. She looks like she’s asking her men the question. Spinning back round to face him, she tilts her head with a grin. “Maybe I’m just not a nice person.”

She looks up and around the room, her eyes at one point passing right over the clear camera.

“Is he watching?” she asks, glancing at Enjolras. “Grantaire? Is he watching?” She seems excited by the idea. “I bet they all are. Hi, Combeferre!” she calls, waggling her fingers at the air.

Everyone in the room tenses.

“How does she know your name?” Marius asks, quietly.

On screen, Claudia begins to laugh. “You should see your faces,” she says to Courfeyrac and Enjolras. “You look quite the picture of shock.”

Her voice is starting to wear into me, making me jittery and somewhat apprehensive. The way she talks makes you feel that she knows everything. That there’s nothing you can hide from her.

I swallow, anxiously.

“Alright, Claudia,” Enjolras says, interrupting her laughter, “that’s enough. You’ve made your point. I don’t know how you found names, because I certainly didn’t give them to you, but you clearly have them. It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Doesn’t it?” she asks, in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. “I know _names_ , who knows what else I know? Who’s to say I don’t know exactly where your friends are right now? Who’s to say that I don’t have people right outside your… What do you call it? Your ‘Hideout’?”

The room goes deathly still and even through a camera we can see Enjolras fail to hide his panic.

“Enjolras, we’re okay. We’re okay,” Combeferre says, quickly.

“I don’t believe you,” Courfeyrac says, when it becomes clear that Enjolras isn’t going to.

Claudia looks to Courfeyrac. “No? Shall I prove it?”

Enjolras looks quite obviously towards the camera, his lips parted slightly. “No,” he says, quickly. “No. Just- Don’t.”

“Have I gotten to you now, Enjolras?” Claudia asks, her tone mocking and cruel. She puts on a sing-song voice to say, “Your friends are in danger!”

“Do we have any confirmation of this?” Marius asks Joly and Joly shakes his head.

“No. No, I don’t know.”

“Check the perimeter,” Combeferre commands, and Joly gets to his feet instantly. Bossuet throws him a gun, and Joly quickly loads the gun and flicks the safety off.

He disappears through a door, and I’ve never felt more anxious than I do right now.

“I don’t believe you,” Enjolras echoes Courfeyrac. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Claudia asks. She pulls a gun out of her waistband, holding it up and pointing it straight at Enjolras’ head.

I’m on my feet in seconds. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse, loudly.

“Grantaire, calm down,” Combeferre barks at me.

“She’s going to kill him,” I all but squeal.

Enjolras straightens his back, lifting his chin. “You haven’t killed us so far. I’m inclined to believe that you’re not going to now,” he tells her, calm, once more. Even so, he lifts a hand to signal to the others to be prepared. She watches the movement, and he gives her a half shrug. “What can I say? I don’t trust you.”

“The feeling goes both ways,” she says with a smile. “Here’s my play: stand down. Back off Henri and let me get rid of him, and I’ll let your friends back at the Hideout live.”

As she says that, Joly comes bursting back into the room. He slams his headset back on, quickly saying, “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but we are surrounded.”

Multiple members of the back-up curse. “I’m coming back,” Éponine says.

“Absolutely not,” Combeferre barks. “You stay where you are. We can handle this.”

I stand there, staring at the screen in a complete state of panic, while this woman points a gun at my boyfriend’s head, and we are surrounded by people sent to kill us.

Joly and Bossuet are loading guns and sticking knives into their waistbands, passing guns and other weapons to Marius and Combeferre, who remain sat at their computers.

“You know how to shoot?” Joly asks me, handing me a gun.

I shake my head, unsure if I can even speak. I’ve never held a gun before, and when he pushes one into my hands my impulse is to drop it. Instead I grip it tightly, listening as he gives me a quick run-through, barely telling me more than point and pull the trigger, but it’ll have to do. He gives me a quick smile, but I know that he’s scared as hell.

My eyes slide back to the standoff on screen.

“So if we don’t stand down, you kill them all? Do you have that much faith in your team’s abilities?” Enjolras asks her.

“Do you in yours?” she responds.

“I have every faith in my team,” he says.

“So, risk it,” she suggests.

I shudder, gripping my gun tightly but keeping my finger off the trigger for fear of accidentally firing it prematurely.

“Ferre, let a few of us come back,” Cosette says over the radio. “You don’t need all of us here, and you really need us back there.”

“No,” Combeferre snaps. “We’re fine here.”

“Marius,” Cosette says then, “do you need us there?”

Marius darts a look over to Combeferre. “It couldn’t hurt to have maybe two of you come back. I just don’t know if you’ll get here in time.”

Combeferre makes an irritated sound.

“Sweetheart, I’ll be right there,” Cosette says.

“Bring Feuilly,” Combeferre says, reluctantly.

“On it.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac share a long look.

“We can take them,” Combeferre says. “Enjolras, it’s okay. We can take them.”

Joly and Bossuet share a look, eyebrows raised, but don’t protest.

“Enj,” Combeferre says, seriously. “Don’t back down.”

My hands shake. Time slows down. I watch Enjolras.

“We won’t stand down,” Enjolras says, loudly and clearly, defiance in his entire body.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. She pulls a phone from her pocket and holds it to her ear. “Get them,” she says to the person on the other end, her eyes fixed on Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac look directly to the camera then, and Combeferre quickly says, “Courf, I love you so much and I refuse to never see you again. We’re not dying today.”

“Any last advice?” Courfeyrac whispers, and he could be talking to Enjolras, but it’s not Enjolras that replies.

“Stay alive,” Combeferre replies. “That’s all of us, okay?” Combeferre then adds, raising his voice unnecessarily. “Stay alive, guys.”

My mouth goes dry.

“Get out of there,” Marius says into his radio, clearly talking to Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. I groan.

“Enjolras,” Marius says, “Get out.”

“Let me,” I say, going over to Marius. He shrugs and passes the mouthpiece to me. “Apollo, I know that you’re big on the whole run this town shit but right now we need you alive. Do as we say and get the fuck out of there. We’re about to get raided and we’re not going to be there for back-up. You need to get out.”

Combeferre then adds, “Musichetta, if Claudia tries to stop them from leaving, make your presence well known.”

“Come on, Apollo. Just leave.”

“Only Musichetta, though. Everyone else, keep yourselves hidden unless absolutely necessary.”

A loud crash comes from somewhere in the building as, presumably, the front door to the Hideout gets smashed in. I jump, but none of the others react, besides from Joly strengthening his stance.

“I love you,” I say. “Please, get out of there.”

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” Enjolras says, and we all breathe a sigh of relief. Marius and Combeferre give me pleased looks.

Claudia laughs her bright laugh and says, “No, I don’t think so.”

The moment she’s finished speaking, a bullet fires straight into the floor, just in front of her foot. She jumps, stumbling back a pace and whirling in the direction that the shot came from.

“Yeah, that’s right, bitch,” Musichetta says, despite the fact that Claudia cannot hear her. Joly and Bossuet stifle a laugh.

“I see how it is,” Claudia says. “Alright, leave. You’ll never get to your friends in time.”

Musichetta – based off the giggling – fires another shot at her, once again at her feet, making her skip back another step. I watch, momentary relief coursing through me, as Enjolras and Courfeyrac turn on their heels and leave.

“That gained us nothing,” Marius says, tiredly.

Another crash, another door being busted down.

“They’re going to be here soon,” Joly says.

“On the contrary,” Enjolras’ voice sounds out. “We know that we’re going to have to move out.”

A smattering of laughter follows his words, but it sounds more like relief that he and Courfeyrac made it out than genuine humour.

“They’re in the corridor just outside,” Joly says. “We’re going radio silent, everyone through the back door now. We need to get to somewhere more defensible.”

Combeferre grabs me by the arm and drags me towards the back door, yanking it open and shoving me through. I can hear everyone else following, but I’m most focussed on keeping on moving as Combeferre shepherds me up a set of stairs.

I hear someone following us, and the others going in the opposite direction. We come out onto the roof, and Cosette and Feuilly meet us there, guns in hands and grim determination set onto their faces. I startle at the appearance, but Combeferre seems to have expected it. Marius is right behind us and he gives Cosette a quick hug, saying that he’s glad she’s safe.

“Don’t speak too soon,” she says, but she gives him a soft smile.

“Our main goals are to take them out and to stay alive. Protecting Grantaire needs to also be a priority, simply because he cannot protect himself. Most importantly, we cannot let the Hideout be taken until we have cleared it, so for now we need to defend it.” Combeferre looks round at them all, seriously. “Don’t get shot.”

“Let’s go,” Feuilly says, setting off back the way I came with Combeferre and Marius. I’m forced to the middle of the group, the most sheltered area.

Gunshots ring out somewhere below us, and I flinch. A hand settles on my shoulder, comfortingly. I turn and give Feuilly a smile, though I know it shakes. He looks back at me, and then lifts his gun, giving it a little wave. I quickly put both hands on my gun, holding it like Joly showed me. Feuilly gives me an approving nod.

“Don’t forget to breathe when you fire,” Feuilly whispers to me. “Oh, and watch out for the recoil.”

Combeferre points Cosette and Marius down a hallway – it seems this place is more of a maze than I had thought. We carry on until we get to a door. Combeferre looks at the two of us, and Feuilly nods. Feuilly firmly puts me behind him, keeping me out the way, and then Combeferre throws open the door.

When the first gun fires, I forget to breathe. 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

“Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”

_― Mineko Iwasaki_

 

“Grantaire, Grantaire, stay down- No- Stay-”

Combeferre is desperately trying to get me to listen to him. I’m doing a pretty good job at ignoring him.

The whole operation fell to shit, quite frankly.

We did not ‘hold the fort’. We did not win. We did not keep me safe.

I haven’t seen Enjolras in hours.

Combeferre, Feuilly, Cosette, Musichetta, and I are being held in a holding cell. A very small, very uncomfortable, holding cell.

I’m struggling to get up, to look out through the bars and- Well, I don’t know what. But I can’t sit here for a second longer.

If I’d had any suspicions about the mental stability of Claudia Duvert previously, they’re long gone. She’s fucking psychotic.

She doesn’t care about humanity. She doesn’t give a single damn about right or wrong. She’s in this to play us, and to play her husband, no doubt. Plain and simple.

I had to stand and watch as she shot Cosette in the shoulder. It was a carefully placed shot, and we know that – or at least I’ve been reassured that – but still. To see Cosette in pain is not something I’m enjoying.

“Combeferre, let go of me- Let go-”

“What are you gonna do, huh?” he asks me, sharply. “Are you going to beg for her help? For any of them to help? It’s not going to happen, Grantaire.”

He shoves me, making me sit back down on the floor.

“Sit down and shut up. I’m trying to think.”

Honestly, the gun fight hadn’t lasted all that long back at the Hideout. We were outnumbered, and no matter how many people we took out, there were just more of them. We didn’t stand a chance.

Cosette had kicked up a fuss, but we’d been held steady. When Claudia herself showed up, Cosette had spat at her, calling her all kinds of names, and Claudia had been completely calm and collected as she pointed her gun and shot Cosette.

The blonde had gone falling to the floor, before being roughly picked up by one of Claudia’s.

We still don’t know what happened to the others. We don’t know who made it out. We don’t know what happened to Enjolras and Courfeyrac after they left the meeting point, though we’re sure they didn’t make it back to Hideout before we left – no; that makes it sound like we had a choice – before we were dragged out of there.

Musichetta reaches for my hand, squeezing it tightly. “We’re all in a little bit of a mess here, honey, but it’s going to be fine.”

Combeferre snorts at that, as if he doesn’t believe in the notion of comforting words and false hope, and when Musichetta gives him a sharp look, he simply shrugs. “There’s a 20% chance we’ll make it out of here alive, if that. I’m not exactly getting my expectations up.”

I stare at the ground. Musichetta’s hand is warm in my own. There’s a clock somewhere, ticking too loudly. The seconds aren’t quite even. Time is no longer a consistency.

I haven’t seen Enjolras in hours.

\---

I’ve been staring at the white wall for what feels like an eternity. None of us have spoken a word. There really isn’t anything to say at this point, and honestly, anything we could say we wouldn’t want being overheard – and there’s no doubt that we are being listened to.

My fingernails tap at the floor, next to my leg, trying to count real seconds, not the off-time ones from the clock. Musichetta’s still holding my other hand, a lifeline.

My mind is never far from the thought of Enjolras, and I’m terrified. I don’t know where he is. They might have him. _She_ might have him.

I chew at my lip.

My throat is parched, my mouth dry, and I’m sure I couldn’t manage a whisper if I tried.

Musichetta’s head slips down to rest on my shoulder. I remember that she also doesn’t know where the people she loves are. I rest my head on top of hers, a silent attempt at reassurance.

Cosette’s still clutching at her shoulder, her face a mask to hide the pain that she must be in. She doesn’t know where Marius is.

Combeferre is stiff, back straight, the very picture of tension. He also doesn’t have the person he loves; Courfeyrac is M.I.A.

Feuilly is twisting a thread from his shirt round and round between his fingers. I don’t know him well enough to know if he has anyone, let alone if they’re anyone I know, but if he does, he must be terrified for them, or at the thought of never seeing them again, too.

We’re all missing someone. They’re missing all their friends, and their partners, and everything that brings them peace.

I shudder and Musichetta squeezes my hand.

I feel like I should be exhausted by now, but all I feel is fear.

“They’re going to be alright,” Musichetta whispers hoarsely. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or to all of us, but I squeeze her hand in thanks anyway.

“Of course they are,” Cosette says, sounding forceful, as if saying it with enough strength will make it so. Feuilly nods in agreement. Combeferre just continues to stare at the wall.

“They’ll be fine,” Musichetta says. “So will we.”

I sure do hope she’s right.

\---

It’s not until the moment that I’m started to drift off to sleep on Musichetta’s shoulder that anything at all happens.

It starts with heavy footfall down the corridor outside our door, making the others sit up, alert, and me start to blink blearily, trying to wake up and focus.

It’s not that I’m not still terrified, but staring at a white wall for hours on end seems to have made me a little sleepy.

Musichetta props me up, getting to her feet to face the door, and Combeferre does the same.

We can hear the click of heels on the concrete floor outside, amongst the tread of boots, and it’s enough to fill me with dread.

When the door swings open, revealing Claudia Duvert, my stomach clenches.

I wrap my arms around myself and stay seated, because I doubt my legs could hold me now. Cosette also remains on the floor, the pain in her arm keeping her down. Feuilly stands beside Musichetta and Combeferre, blocking Claudia’s way to Cosette and me.

Claudia smiles, a terrible grin that – if I make it out of this – will probably haunt me for a long time.

There’s no denying that she’s beautiful, and if I hadn’t met her like this I probably would have begged her to model for me, but as I know her the smoothness of her skin and the redness of her lips fills me with disgust.

She looks over us all, disdainfully, as if searching for something that she doesn’t care for. From within her ‘pack’ of guards, two step out. One of them holds Courfeyrac, and the other holds Marius.

I expected Combeferre to react to seeing Courfeyrac, but he doesn’t. He stays motionless, staring down Claudia. “Where’s Enjolras?” he demands, as their two friends are shoved into the already too-small cell.

She ignores him. “Which of you is Feuilly?” she asks them.

Marius falls to his knees beside Cosette, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips and whispering soft reassurances.

Feuilly looks at Claudia with surprise. “I am,” he tells her.

Combeferre shoots him a glance.

“Alright,” Claudia says. Motioning to her guards she says, “Bring him and Grantaire.”

Fear claws at my throat, and a scream builds as one of the guards shoves his way inside our cell to grab me. I choke it down as he drags me to my feet, roughly.

I may not have liked the cell but there was something of safety in it. Now, with only Feuilly for any sense of familiarity, I’m petrified.

Feuilly, however, is either used to this kind of situation, or he’s just not affected, because he keeps up a stream of questions aimed at Claudia, or any guard that will listen, for the entire time we’re in their custody.

“What is this place? Where are you taking us? Where are the rest of our group? Have you killed Duvert yet?”

Claudia never responds but this doesn’t seem to dishearten Feuilly.

“Are you about to kill us?” Feuilly asks at one point, and my throat constricts. He then moves on to say, “Seriously, where are we? Because this place seems quite military.”

“Then maybe you should shut up before we get killed military-style, Feuilly,” I mutter.

He gives me a look for that, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and I wonder how he can be so calm. The guard is gripping my arm tightly, not giving me any chance to get away – not that I would try to, I’d like to prolong my life as much as I can.

When a door is thrown open and we’re pulled inside, we find the last people we’d expected to. My jaw drops open and relief floods through me, because he’s _here_. He’s _here_ and he’s _alive_ and–

“Enjolras,” I say, impulsively stepping forwards before I’m yanked backwards.

Beside Enjolras stands Bahorel and his eyes aren’t moving from Feuilly, his expression everything that I know my own is right now.

“Thank God,” I hear Feuilly mumble, beside me.

Enjolras’ eyes rake over me and he gives me a pained smile.

Claudia comes into the room behind us and gives the guards a dismissive, “Let go of them.”

The second their hands are off me I throw myself into Enjolras’ arms. He wraps his arms around me, but he doesn’t really hold me like he usually does. Next to us, Feuilly and Bahorel are gripping each other so tightly it’s a wonder they don’t merge to become one person, but while I cling to Enjolras, he only holds me lightly, his entire body rigid.

I look up at him, concerned, and find his eyes fixed on Claudia. Following his gaze, I find her watching us, something of a frown on her face.

Enjolras peels me away from him, pushing me lightly so I stumble back. Shock floods through me. What is he doing?

“Enjolras?” I ask, voice quiet in my surprise.

“This is your play?” Enjolras asks, tilting his head on its side, looking at Claudia in confusion. “Giving us the people you think we care for?”

“I’m showing you what I could take away,” she tells him.

He widens his eyes in an over-stated act of understanding, something almost mocking in his actions. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards, showing humour, and I don’t know what he’s finding so funny. “Oh,” he says, and that’s definitely amusement in his voice.

“What?” she growls, and I flinch away from her, wondering what Enjolras is doing.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at her. “Grantaire?” he asks, and my blood runs cold as he laughs. “Grantaire means nothing to me.”

“No,” I whisper. Then I say it again, louder. “No. No, you told me-”

He looks across at me with a disbelieving look. “What? That I loved you? Grow up, Grantaire.”

I– I don’t know what to do. He’s looking at me with unfeeling eyes, no emotion anywhere on his pretty face, and for a moment, I hope – but then it changes, and it’s not apathy I see, instead it’s… It’s disgust.

“No,” Claudia then says, her voice too loud. “No, that’s not right.”

Enjolras starts to laugh, and he says, “God, I can’t believe you fell for that.”

I simply stare at him, and he says something else, but I can barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. Distantly, I hear him say, “It was a _cover_ , Claudia. Something to keep you distracted with.”

Stumbling backwards, reeling, my legs buckle beneath me, and luckily Feuilly and Bahorel are there to catch me.

I feel dizzy, sick. It can’t be a lie. It _can’t_. He _told_ me that I could trust him; that he’d never lie to me again.

We’ve spent too much time together: laughed, danced, and lived together; it _can’t_ all be a lie. Not again.

Not again.

“Sometimes, it was just a bit of fun for me too,” he goes on to say, with a shrug. “You made my life a living Hell on occasion, and between you, my hectic work life, and fucking your husband, I needed a _break_. God, he was a good one. But ultimately, it was nothing and it kept you busy – trying to puzzle it out, finding out all about Grantaire, while we were getting on. Working, preparing, getting ready to demolish you.”

If I could I’d turn to see Claudia’s reaction to that, but all I can do is stare at Enjolras, wondering what I’d ever done to deserve this.

He promised. He promised.

I gasp the words; only still on my feet because of the way Feuilly and Bahorel are holding me. “You _promised_ ,” I tell him. “You told me you _loved_ me!” I scream, and finally, _finally_ , he looks over at me.

“I said a lot of things, Grantaire,” he replies, with a shrug, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“No,” I say. “No, no, no. You- You can’t just-” tears are falling down my face like a waterfall, all my anger and heartbreak and _betrayal_ pouring out of me. “You told me you loved me,” I say again, and my voice wobbles.

“So did you,” he replies.

“That’s because I _do_ love you,” I cry. “ _Fuck_ , Enjolras, you absolute bastard. How could you?” I ask, and then scream the words at him. “ _HOW COULD YOU?_ ”

Now Bahorel and Feuilly are less holding me up, and more holding me back, as I struggle to get near enough to Enjolras to slap him.

“You _told_ me that-”

“You’re _nothing_!” Enjolras screams, interrupting me. “I don’t need you! We’re done, and we never even mattered. Don’t tell me you thought I’d want to be with you forever; even when you _thought_ it was real, surely you knew that I wasn’t going to be with you forever.

“You never mattered to me.”

His words cut right through to the bone and I hiss through my teeth slightly. “Don’t you dare stand there- Don’t you tell me that you felt _nothing_. Don’t you dare stand there and _lie_ to my face.”

I shake Bahorel and Feuilly off, ignorant to the fact that we’re in a room full of people.

Enjolras laughs, cruelly and wickedly, and the sound is all I know. “You were a _distraction_ ; a breath of fresh air in my shitty, complicated life. You don’t mean anything to me. You were _convenient_ , _Cyrene_.”

“Don’t call me that,” I reply blankly. I let out a sound that’s almost a growl, I curse, and I spin away, carding a hand through my hair, before turning back to Enjolras. My eyes are dark and my eyelids are heavy. “I can’t believe I let myself fall in love with you,” I spit.

“That makes two of us,” Enjolras snaps back.

I blink at him, and feel myself closing in on myself, retreating, hiding. Running.

He turns away from me with a roll of his eyes and I’ve never felt smaller than I do now. He _loves me_. I know he does. I know he does…

Claudia looks horrified, but it soon transforms into anger, and she snaps, “Get him out,” in reference to me.

I don’t even fight the guards as they grab me and pull me out the room.

The last thing I see is Enjolras, standing there, chin up and looking utterly unmoved.

What a fine statue…

At first I thought they’d take me back to the holding cell, thrown in with the others, and I was scared about what I’d say to them. Did they know? Were they aware of Enjolras’ ploy? If they were, surely they’d have nothing to say to me now. If they weren’t, I don’t want their comfort.

I’m saved the hassle of having to talk to them by the way the guards throw me out onto the street instead, telling me to get lost.

It’s a good thing I know Paris like the back of my hand, and it doesn’t take me long to find my way back to somewhere that’s incredibly familiar.

As always, I head straight for the bar. I drink away the memory of Enjolras; drink away the feelings of love, until there’s nothing left but anger and bitterness and loneliness.

When I finally leave the bar, 3:00 AM, and drunk out of my skull, I feel sick to my stomach; it’s nothing to do with the alcohol, either. As I stumble through the streets, eyesight blurring, I try to focus on the pavement.

Whether it’s the drink that’s making it hard to see, or the tears that I’m pretending aren’t slowly filling my eyes, I’m not actually sure. I think it’s the drink. I hope it’s the drink. To cry over that- that- that bastard would be pathetic.

By the time I’ve actually made it back to my flat, I’ve been forced to accept that I’m crying.

I don’t sleep straight away. After pushing open the door to my flat, I find my way to my studio, staring at drawing after drawing of Enjolras: Enjolras, half asleep, wrapped up in the sheets of my bed, his pale skin not dissimilar to the whiteness of the sheets; Enjolras, golden hair shining in the sunlight as he sits on the grass by the river on our first date; Enjolras, face alight with passion as he stands before a crowd, preaching, shouting, screaming his truth to them all. He looks beautiful in them all and it breaks my heart.

I pick one up, the one of Enjolras by the river, and I flip it over. Written on the back, in my messy handwriting, are the words: Apollo – shining like the sun, June 30th 2015. The first date.

Shining like the sun. I remember writing those words; I remember thinking those words. He’s so beautiful, so very, very beautiful, and yet still so dangerous.

I take hold of a sketch of Enjolras and grab a lighter off the side, flicking the catch and holding the flame up to the edge of the paper. I watch as the flames destroy him, flickering and burning their way up the page.

I love him.

He turns to ash, disintegrating between my fingers.

I love him.

Is this power? Is this what it’s like to be a God? To have the power to destroy so easily? It must be nice; I can see why Enjolras likes it so much.

I love him.

The flames lick my fingers, burning them, and I hardly wince. I’ve been burnt before. I simply drop the tiny bit of paper I’m still holding onto the desk and blow it out. If my house goes down, at least it’ll be bright against the night sky.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

That night, I drink myself into a stupor and dream of my sun.

_He burns like fire, he dances like the flame, shimmering, shining, giving off energy and life **.** He could burn down a city, and stand in its place, a tall beacon of hope and light. He shows how light travels endlessly, how the sun keeps us alive, how the flame gives heat and the candle gives light._

_He moves, so fast you hardly see him strike. His words are an even brighter blaze, scorching or empowering._

_He knows how to use his fire, his passion and his vibrancy. Knows how to lift himself up above the crowds and he is the **sun.**_

The words of a poem drift through my subconscious.

_Not nothing without you, but not the same. Not nothing without you, but perhaps less. Not nothing, but less, and less. Perhaps not nothing without you, but not much more._

I wake up in a cold sweat and curls in on myself, shivering and trying to ignore the emptiness that fills my gut.

One day that emptiness will consume me entirely, till there’s not much left of me at all.

Less and less and less.

Erich Fried knew what he was talking about. I’m nothing without Enjolras.

I used to have some sort of self-respect. Well, maybe that’s taking it a little far. I had rules. I didn’t _love._ I didn’t even let anyone close to me. I kept to myself; I drank; I painted. Life was simple.

He made it exciting. Life with him around was an adventure, running from the police, picnics in the sun, exploring the woods, hanging around in the _Musain_ to have meetings with his friends, kissing under a lamppost on the high-street, laughing as we lay beneath the sheets, legs tangled, my fingers trailing patterns across his skin.

I got addicted to his way of life – he made me live again.

Then he took it all away.

I’ll never be who I once was, and even that was a shadow of a man. There was little left of me when Enjolras gave me purpose, so God knows how I’ll pick up the pieces now.

Fading, vanishing, and disappearing. That’s all I’m good for now.

So that’s what I do – I disappear.

I don’t think about where the others are, and I don’t think about Enjolras. I lose myself in late night bars, falling in love with strangers and the feel of their skin against mine: his rough lips, her soft thighs, their delicate curls.

I drink till I can’t think, wake up with my head pounding in a different bed each morning, and start again.

I get by on free drinks and living in other people’s houses for a night. I steal their food when I can’t get my own. I no longer have a phone; I left it behind at my place, and I haven’t been back there in weeks.

I don’t know if he’s alive.

When a stranger with pretty blonde hair looks at me along the bar one night I don’t let myself think as they buy me a few drinks and take me home with them. I fuck them roughly, hands fisting into their beautiful blonde hair, and I come, crying out Enjolras’ name, and hate myself for it.

They don’t comment, especially when they have no right to – they definitely said a name that wasn’t mine at least once.

That’s the trouble with going to late night bars; you’re always going to leave with someone who’s trying to fuck away the memory of another.

Sometimes that’s a good thing; they don’t want a second date either.

Other times, it’s not so great, because you know they don’t _care_ about you. Not one single bit.

But neither, apparently, did Enjolras.

As usual, I spend the night in their bed, both of us too exhausted to go through the whole “you should leave” conversation.

When I get up early in the morning, I make myself some coffee and steal a couple of apples and a chocolate biscuit for later.

When they stumble out of their room, shortly after me, I raise my coffee cup in a mockery of a salute, finish it in silence, and am then on my way.

The streets are fairly empty this early in the morning, and with my stomach growling at me, I decide to head home and get something real to eat. I eat one of the apples as I walk, starting in on the other straight after.

When I get back to my flat I find that some things are out of place, enough to tell me that it has not sat empty in my absence. It should irritate me but instead I find myself oddly reassured by the fact, because surely it means that some of the Amis are okay, and that they tried to check on me.

Which isn’t to say that they haven’t found me; that they don’t know how I’ve been spending my time since I left them there.

And if Enjolras is alive, then he probably knows too.

The thought makes me feel guiltier than it should, considering the fact that he’s the one that didn’t give a damn about what I’d thought was a relationship.

I find my phone on the sofa, completely out of charge, and I head to my room to plug it in. As soon as it powers up messages start to flood in, so I put it on silent and leave it there to catch up.

I take a shower, trying to clean last night off my skin, standing underneath the water until it runs cold. It feels fresh and cleansing, washing away everything, at first, but then the cold becomes numbing, and I can no longer feel anything, and it scares me.

I stagger out from under the cold spray, grabbing a towel and pulling it around myself, trying to get warm. Trying to get some feeling back into me – feeling that I haven’t had for days. I rub at my arms, searching for the warmth – the heat, the sun – and find my skin cold.

~~I need him, I need him.~~

Uselessly, I pull on clothes, t-shirt, jumper, jeans, thick socks, and then I find a blanket, tugging that around me before diving under my duvet. The comfort that being in my own bed brings is remarkable, and I curl in on myself, feeling like a child hiding from the dark – or their parents – under the covers where they are protected.

I remember my phone then, and I briefly re-enter the world to grab it off the side before ducking back into my safe haven.

The mobile only has half-battery, but it’s enough.

**20 missed calls. 9 texts. 10 answer phone messages.**

I stare at the numbers, and then start to work my way through it all, starting with the calls:

**Enjolras, Enjolras, Combeferre, Jehan, Jehan, Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras, Cosette, Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Enjolras, Combeferre, Enjolras, Enjolras, Cosette, Enjolras.**

Then I move onto the texts, wincing.

I leave Enjolras’ texts till last, knowing that they’ll be the hardest to read.

**Combeferre:** Grantaire, please let us know that you’re okay. Enjolras is alive. We made it out. Claudia is dead.

I thought his would be easy to read, but already my heart is pounding. I knew that Enjolras was alive because of all the calls, but to know that Claudia is _dead_ is something I hadn’t anticipated.

**Courfeyrac:** I know you probably don’t want to talk to any of us after what enjolras said but you need to know that it wasn’t true

**Courfeyrac:** by that I mean he loves you

**Courfeyrac:** please come back

I stare at Courfeyrac’s texts for a long time, finding it hard to get past what he’d said. It can’t be true. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know what it was like. He doesn’t know the things Enjolras said.

**Jehan:** Enjolras won’t talk to any of us. He needs you.

**Cosette:** I know you’re upset, and I know that Enjolras hurt you, but I promise you that he loves you. It’s up to you, and if you never want to see him again, believe me I’d understand, but I hate seeing my brother like this. I miss you x

**Bahorel:** hi I know we don’t know each other that well but you seem like a good guy. don’t hurt enjolras like this. he’s so sorry.

**Feuilly:** He did it to protect you.

**Joly:** I’m sending you all my love (and Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s). I’m sorry for what Enjolras did to you. (Use protection.)

I roll my eyes at the one from Joly because that confirms that they’ve been watching me.

**Éponine:** if u need someone to talk to im here for u. i wont tell enj or any of the others.

Then, I take a deep breath and open the ones from Enjolras.

**Enjolras:** Grantaire I’m so sorry. I love you so much and when I saw that they had you I couldn’t think of any other way to keep you safe. I had to keep you safe. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry.

**Enjolras:** Please let me know you’re okay. We can’t find you.

**Enjolras:** I love you.

**Enjolras:** We went to your place today (I’m sorry for the invasion of privacy but I had to talk to you) and we found your phone. I don’t know how long it’s been since you left your place, and I don’t know if you’ve seen any of my texts. I love you. Please, please, be safe.

**Enjolras:** Well. We found you.

**Enjolras:** God, R, I’m so sorry. I love you.

**Enjolras:** Sometimes I wish we’d never met. I’ve ruined you.

I stare at the words on my phone screen until the screen goes black, and then I press the centre button and it lights back up.

Only one thing left: the voice mails.

I press the number for the voice mail and let it play on speaker, lying under the covers.

“ _You have ten new messages._

_“Message one:_ ‘Grantaire, it’s me, Enjolras, fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. Fuck.’

“ _Message two:_ ‘Please pick up, please, please, Grantaire, I love you so much and I swear I didn’t mean the things I said, I didn’t. I didn’t.’

“ _Message three:_ ‘Hey, Grantaire, it’s Combeferre. I just wanted to let you know that we’re all okay. Claudia’s dead. I’m going to send you a text, just in case you’re the type of person who ignores voice mails. Enjolras is alive, and he needs you. Call me, or him, or someone that he knows so that we know – so that _he_ knows you’re alive and okay. See you around, hopefully.’

“ _Message four:_ ‘Hey, sweetheart, it’s Jehan here. No one’s heard from you and we’re all a little worried. Um, Enjolras is… He’s not good, sweetie, and I think he needs to hear that you’re alive. If you could just... call one of us? That would be great. Take care of yourself.’

“ _Message five:_ ‘It’s me again. Enjolras. Grantaire, R, I don’t know if you’re okay, or even if you’re alive, and I… I need to know. I need to know that I didn’t get you killed. I love you.’

“ _Message six:_ ‘Grantaire, it’s Cosette. I understand what Enjolras did to you was awful, and I know you don’t want to speak to him right now, but I hate to see him hurting and afraid. Just let him – us – know that you’re alive. Thank you.’

“ _Message seven:_ ‘Fuck, it’s me again. Why- Why do you never answer your phone? Are you okay? I love you. Please, please, don’t be dead. Fuck.’

“ _Message eight:_ ‘Hey it’s Courfeyrac. Grantaire, I know that you’re probably in a lot of pain right now, and I’m assuming that you’re not getting everyone’s calls and texts, but when you do, please, call Enjolras. He needs to know you’re alive – we all do, actually. I just, I want you to know that you still have a place with us, if you want. We- We’re still your friends. I’m still your friend. Like when we were kids, yeah? Remember the first time we got drunk, and, and we tried to climb that Goddamn tree in my backyard, and I ended up with concussion and you broke your arm? Looking back it was an awful idea, but all I can think right now is how much fun it was – how much fun we used to have together. You’re still my friend. I still care about you. Come back safely, Grantaire. We miss you.’

“ _Message nine:_ ‘We found you. Grantaire- I- Please, _please,_ forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’m-’

“ _Message ten:_ ‘I miss you, and I love you. Come back. It hurts so much to watch you do this to yourself. I- I need you.’

“ _End of final message._ ”


	8. Chapter 8

 

* * *

 

 “One lie can tarnish a thousand truths.”

_― Al David_

 

Claudia Duvert’s death, when it’s made public, causes a massive uproar.

Honestly, it’s a little insulting to those of us who really knew her how upset everyone is, but then, before this all happened to me, I’d generally liked the woman too. In media, she’d always been portrayed as a lovely woman, giving generously to charities, attending random people’s weddings or parties if they invited her for fun, smiling at little children and old ladies.

Of course, it had all been an act. Maybe once she’d been nice, but I know now that she was unstable.

I don’t know how she died exactly, but it was at the hands of the Amis, without a doubt. I wonder which of them took the final blow. Enjolras? Despite what he said about hating killing, I have a feeling he’d make an exception for Claudia. Combeferre? With his personality, her death would have been precise and clean. Éponine? The one who, according to Enjolras, has less of an aversion to death than the others; surely she’d be a good choice.

Maybe it wasn’t planned. Maybe they didn’t have her cornered, with the luxury of choosing who kills her. Maybe there was a fight, and whoever had the shot took it, no second thoughts. No hesitation.

Her funeral is scheduled for today, and it’s going to be televised, so that the whole nation can mourn her together. I don’t know why Henri Duvert is still pretending they were happy together, but he is. So this is how it’s going to be.

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t planning on watching the funeral purely in the hopes of spotting Enjolras – because surely he’ll be there; surely Duvert will want his right-hand man and part time illicit lover there.

I could attend the funeral in person, I know that I could. There’s going to be a procession through the streets of Paris, and I could get lost in the crowd easily. I don’t want to. There’s too much risk that I’ll see one of them. Or one of them will see me.

I didn’t call any of them back. I didn’t text any of them. I haven’t left my flat in days.

Only once did any of them try to show up at my door. I refused to open the door to Courfeyrac, and he respected that and left, but not before shouting through the door about how sorry Enjolras is.

Settling down in front of the TV, mug of coffee between my hands, I flick through the channels for a bit. The funeral doesn’t start just yet, and I need something to occupy my mind.

I miss them.

It’s ridiculous.

When the funeral is due to start, I flick the channel to one of the many showing the day’s events, and settle in for a long and over-done procession.

As predicted, it is _very_ long and _ridiculously_ over-done, but I do have to admit that it is very stylish and that it does honour the woman that the country thought they knew well. If she had been that woman, I would have thought that this was nice – but she wasn’t. The crowd is mainly silent as her body passes by, but sometimes people clap.

When the parade comes to an end, and the cameras follow her coffin inside a church where close family and various politicians gather I start to search for Enjolras, wondering if he’s in the crowd. I can’t see him.

There are various long speeches about love and care and All Things Good and it’s a little hard to take seriously, when the last time I saw her alive she shot my friend in the shoulder and locked the rest of us up.

Later, the Prime Minister walks out of the church, with his family nearby, to give some kind of speech, I assume, and the nation watches as our Prime Minister gets shot at his wife’s funeral.

It’s hard to comprehend, for a moment, and I imagine that everyone is reacting the same way I am – stunned silence.

I blink at the screen as the cameras jump between difference views; no one knows how to react to what just happened.

The camera shows the crowds lining the street and there’s a mixture of horror or confusion spread throughout the people.

When the cannel cuts out – nothing but white filling its place – I turn the TV off, my hands shaking as I press the button.

Thoughts turning to Enjolras, I realise that he can’t be handling this well. Everything he’s worked for just went out with a _bang!_ and his work is now lying dead.

I’m on my feet and out the door before I have time to think through what I’m doing.

\---

Slamming my hand against the Hideout’s door, I yell to be let in. “If any one of you fuckers can hear me open the Goddamn door.” Silence is the only response I get for my troubles. “Fuck,” I curse, hitting the door with my hand one last time.

Sinking to the floor, back against the door, I bury my face in my hands. If they’ve moved I’ll have no chance of finding them. I forgot my phone as well, in my rush to find Enjolras.

A window creaks open somewhere above my head, and a familiar voice calls down, “Grantaire?”

I leap to my feet, rushing away from the door and craning my neck upwards. “Cosette?” I call back. Then I see her, grinning down at me.

“Wait there,” she says, and then disappears.

As soon as the door opens she throws herself at me, wrapping the arm that’s not in a sling around my neck. “Thank God you’re okay,” she mumbles against my shoulder.

I pull back to give her a smile. “When have I ever not been okay?”

She gives a breathy laugh that’s ruined by the tears that start to leak from her eyes.

“I saw what happened,” I say, prompting the conversation. “I saw Duvert get shot. What went wrong? I thought you killed Claudia?”

She groans and rubs at her forehead. “We _did_. She’s dead.” She grimaces, probably at the thought of that day – days? I don’t know how long they were there – spent with Claudia. Cosette looks concerned, and she leads me inside the Hideout.

We go up the stairs, and she keeps talking to me, filling me in, as if I have any right to know.

“We thought the threat was over – cut off the head, right? But no, apparently some of Claudia’s people were in it for more than money, and they wanted Henri dead for their own reasons. The moment we realised, we tried to get on top of it – take them out, you know?” She coughs, and looks a little guilty, rubbing at the back of her neck. “Uh, it’s not been easy, because… well Enjolras hasn’t… His work has been somewhat lacking,” she says, finally.

“Oh,” I say, because what else can you say to that?

She gives me a small smile. “I’m glad you’ve come back,” she says, quietly, pausing just outside the door to the control room.

“Let’s give it a moment before we start rejoicing in my return,” I say, wondering how long it’s going to take for Enjolras and me to start fighting. I mean, he’s probably not here right now – out dealing with the politics of what’s going on in Paris – but when he gets back here, I have a feeling it’s not going to be good.

She puts her hand on the door knob, and she says, “He’ll be happy to see you, R.”

I don’t know how much I believe her. “We shall see,” I reply.

She pushes open the door, ushering me inside, and the moment I step through, I’m ambushed by Jehan, their arms wrapped tightly around my middle. They say something similar to Cosette’s quiet “Thank God you’re okay” and I respond by putting my arms around them and giving them a squeeze.

Behind them, Bossuet, Marius, Combeferre, and Bahorel are staring at me like I’m the ghost of fucking Christmas past.

“Shit,” Bossuet says, eventually, something of a laugh in his voice, and then steps forwards to drag me into a hug, Jehan quickly ducking out of the way.

Bahorel’s next, clapping me on the back, saying, “We didn’t expect you to come back.” Since he’s one of the few that actually heard what happened first hand, he’d know more than any how unlikely it was that I’d want to see any of them again.

I shrug. “I just- I mean, he called. And- and left messages… explaining? And I figured today wasn’t going to be good for him, so…” They’re all looking at me, something akin to concern in most of their faces. “I’m pretty sure my presence is not going to help, but if I can, I’d like to. Help, that is.”

The unspoken _I’m here for him_ carries throughout the room, but I know that as I look at them, I’m also here for them. They are my friends, no matter how I tried to keep them from being at the start. I never was good with people, though I loathed loneliness sometimes. However, with these people, I never feel like I’m working too hard to keep up appearances; mostly because there’s no need to.

They’d see through any lie I gave to them, and I trust them with my life. I trust them with _his_ life, because they love him as much as I do.

Combeferre nods at me, and his eyes look tired with worry and stress. He turns back to the equipment, though this time there are no screens with cameras. He speaks into a device, saying, “Grantaire’s back.”

I don’t know who he’s speaking to, whether it’s Enjolras, Courfeyrac, one of the others, or all of them.

“Where is he?” I ask Cosette, quietly, though I know the others must hear me.

“Safe,” she responds. “It’s hard to know exactly,” she then amends, when she sees that her single word isn’t enough. “We didn’t have the time to prepare for this funeral, so we don’t have cameras – especially not since a lot of our equipment got destroyed a few weeks back,” she pulls a face, “but we’ve got audio contact and we have rough ideas of where they all are. Henri didn’t want Enjolras right by him – family and a few bodyguards only, for appearances, and Enjolras has never publicly been Henri’s adviser, so people would probably talk if a new guy was hanging around the family of the deceased at the funeral.”

“Would they?” I ask, not sure that she’s right.

“Probably not,” Cosette admits. “But we sold that to Henri so that Enjolras wouldn’t be right there.”

I nod, relieved that he was nowhere near Duvert when he was shot, and it explains why I hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Enjolras on the TV. I rub my hands up and down my upper arms, feeling a little cold and unsteady, and Cosette, noticing, wraps an arm around my waist, giving me a tight squeeze.

After we’ve stood in silence a moment, I ask, “How’s your shoulder?”

She pulls a face. “I’ve had a lot worse, but it doesn’t feel good to be stuck in here.”

Marius quite obviously rolls his eyes at her when she says that, and she sticks her tongue out in return. There’s something relaxed in their actions that sets me at ease. She tugs me over to sit down by the others, and Bossuet gives me a smile as I settle in.

Everyone’s sitting in silence, listening to their earpieces, but I don’t have one, so I ask, “What’s going on?”

Cosette gives me an apologetic look, and says, “Sorry, I forgot you couldn’t hear them. Most of them are on their way back right now, but Courfeyrac and Enjolras are out trying to find out who shot him. They’ll be back soon though, and then we need to decide what to do from here. After all, Enjolras no longer has his place in the government. He could run for Prime Minister, of course, but since he’s not particularly been very public about his politics, people tend not to know who he is. Aside from his general protests and bar appearances, he sticks – stuck – to dealing with Duvert one on one.”

I nod, listening to her, but honestly politics aren’t why I’m here. Unlike the rest of them, I don’t have a desire to improve our country; I just want Enjolras to be safe.

It’s not healthy to feel this way about him I’m sure, what with how he’s lied to me again and again. It’s impossible to think that I could trust him completely ever again, but I do know that I still love him – or feel some sort of strong emotional tie to him – and I know that if he got hurt, it would be like an injury to myself.

Cosette slips a hand into my own and squeezes. “You know he’ll be back, right? This isn’t a risky operation.”

I nod, mutely.

_Please, let her be right._

\---

“Alright, we’ll figure it out when you get back,” Combeferre is saying, after a lengthy conversation that I only heard one side of. I tense at his words, as they signal Enjolras’ return.

I haven’t seen him since that day, and I don’t know what it’s going to feel like, seeing him again.

Combeferre and Marius laugh at something that’s said over the radio, and Bossuet cracks a smile while Cosette rolls her eyes. Bahorel’s grinning too, and I ask what happened.

Cosette just gives me a smile and a shake of her head to indicate that it wasn’t anything important.

Musichetta and Éponine, now back, don’t seem at all interested in what’s going on. They’re playing a game of cards on the floor, as a matter of fact. They invited me to join them, earlier, as a way of keeping me relaxed, but I couldn’t concentrate so quit the game very quickly. Joly’s lounging by Musichetta’s side, looking at her cards but not offering any input or giving any tells as to what she holds.

Feuilly’s sitting by Bahorel’s side, quietly, not interfering – just a presence, sitting there. I realise that it’s his instinct to be near Bahorel, because he gravitated there without much thought when he arrived, and though he hasn’t said much except asking for an update on Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s location, he hasn’t moved away either.

I watch them subtly with something close to jealousy.

It’s not until Combeferre and the others start pulling their earpieces out that my gut fills with butterflies. Cosette’s still holding my hand, and I appreciate that, because if she weren’t I think I might just sink to the floor and stay there awhile.

I can hear the door opening downstairs and the voices of Courfeyrac and Enjolras echo up to us as they chatter while walking up the stairs. I still, staring at the door that they will come through feeling a little sick with nerves.

“What if-” I start in a whisper to Cosette, but she silences me with a look.

“He wants you here,” she tells me. I sink back into my chair and hunch my shoulders a bit, wishing that I could hide from the world – but he knows that I’m here; Combeferre told him I would be, so he must be expecting me.

When the door swings open, I squeeze Cosette’s hand a little too hard, but, bless her, she doesn’t react. I find that I can’t look at him now, keeping my eyes trained on the ground.

Everyone in the room has gone silent, replaced by a buzzing in my ear that makes me shiver.

Then, “Grantaire?” he says, in a quiet voice.

My eyes glance up to look him in the eye, and he looks so _amazed_ to see me that I start to feel all my resolve – what little there was of it – start to crumble. I swallow. “Hi,” I manage to say.

He takes a half-step towards me, but I say, “Don’t,” on impulse. He freezes, a wounded look flitting across his face for a moment. Cosette lets go of my hand as I get to my feet, standing to face him. My bottom lip wobbles and I pinch my lips together, making my hands into fists so that they don’t shake. Distantly I’m aware of the others leaving the room, but my eyes never leave him. When the door closes behind the last person, I tell him, “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

He looks somewhat ashamed. “Honestly, neither do I,” he says, and I flinch. “No! That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly, eyes widening. “I just- I didn’t expect you to come back,” he says, and he looks _small_ , which is not a word I often use to describe Enjolras. “I’m glad you have though.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well, I saw the news, and- and I thought-”

“That I’d need you?” he asks, quietly.

The ringing in my ears gets louder, but his voice can still cut through it like a knife.

I shrug again. Then I nod, weakly. “Yeah,” I say. I bite my lip.

A smile slowly crosses his face, and, _God_ , I’ve missed that smile. “I do,” he says, in a small voice. My confusion must show on my face, because he then says, “Need you, that is. I do need you. I need you so badly, R.”

I sniff, wondering when the first tear had slipped from my eye. “I missed you?” I offer.

“Me too,” he says. “More than you can know.” He looks at me for a long while, and his hand twitches by his side. “R, can I-?”

Before he can finish his sentence I’m crossing the room and wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his neck and holding him so tightly.

“Grantaire,” he whispers, as I cling to him, his arms coming up to hold me just as closely.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” I tell him as I stay wrapped around him, his arms around me too. My voice is a little muffled.

“I know, I wouldn’t expect you to have,” he replies.

“Okay, good,” I say.

We just stay there, in each other’s arms, for a while. Until my breath has evened out, and until his heart rate has slowed to normal.

“I still love you,” I tell him when he pulls back to smile at me. “I don’t forgive you, but I understand and I do still love you.”

“That’s all I ask of you,” he replies, and then says, “Can I kiss you?”

I look up at him, in all his nervous sincerity, and nod. “Yes.”

He beams, a brilliant smile that makes my heart jump. He leans down and I lift up on my toes a little so we meet in the middle. It’s a gentle kiss, our mouths still closed, but it means the world.

When he pulls back, it’s to say, “I love you too, by the way. In case you didn’t get that.”

That makes me laugh, a real genuine laugh, and he tugs me in for another hug. Willingly, I fall back into his arms. “You’ve got to stop lying to me,” I mumble.

“I know, R,” he says. “I swear, no more lies. There’s no more reason to lie.”

I lean into his shoulder and let my eyes shut, just living in the moment with his arms around me.

“I believe you,” I reply, though I’m not sure that it’s true.

After all, there’s a ‘lie’ in ‘believe’ too.

\---

We’re all sitting around in a circle on the floor. They’re throwing ideas back and forth, reasons for and against Enjolras going into politics for real, reasons for and against just leaving and going silent for a while, reasons for and against rooting out Claudia’s people.

“It’s not our concern anymore,” Éponine says. “Duvert is dead, that was the only reason we were against these people.”

“Not our concern?” Combeferre repeats, incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? These people could be a danger to us and our society!”

“And they might not be!” Éponine throws back. “All we have is speculation, but as far as we know, all they cared about was getting rid of Duvert.”

“And why would that be?” Joly questions. “Maybe because they want to get one of their own in charge. What if we end up with someone worse than Duvert, and someone who isn’t as easily swayed by a pretty face?” He glances at Enjolras with those words.

“Then let Enjolras run for Prime Minister,” Marius suggests.

“Wouldn’t work,” Joly replies.

“You can’t know that,” Éponine says.

“I’m the logistics behind this entire operation,” Joly snaps. “Don’t tell me what I don’t know.”

“Joly. Calm down,” Enjolras says.

“Calm down?” Joly demands. “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“The fact that this is even a debate,” Bossuet says. “Enjolras, you’re great, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no way you’re going to get elected as the next Prime Minister. The President is not going to appoint you, because he doesn’t know you. Sure, he’s going to appoint whoever he thinks will be best suited for the job, but it will be a politician that he knows well. You do not fit into that category.” He looks around the room. “If Enjolras one day being Prime Minister is what we want, then it’s going to be a long haul. He needs to become a respected politician first, and, no offence, but I don’t see that happening.

“You don’t really belong in a Government, Enjolras. If you want that, then I’ll back you all the way, but I just- I don’t see it.”

Joly nods. “We can absolutely start on a mission, if you will, to get you well known, and well respected, and into the Senate, eventually, but it’s going to take a long time.”

“So,” Bossuet concludes, “unless you want to do that, or you want to hook up with the next Prime Minister, we should abandon this idea.”

Silence reigns for a moment after their double speech, that I feel a little impressed by, as the others think hard about how to respond to that. I stay silent where I’m sat between Cosette and Jehan, watching Enjolras.

Jehan speaks up next. “The way I see it,” they say, “is that our only choice is to get rid of Claudia’s people. It doesn’t guarantee that the next person to be Prime Minister will be in our favour, but it does improve our chances.” They pause, and glance around the room, before saying slowly, “Also, no one’s really mentioned this, but there is a chance that Claudia’s people will target us next. While some of the people working for her will have been there for the advantages she could give them, some for the hell of it, and maybe some because they were forced, there will be some of them who were loyal to her and her cause. These are the people who could decide to do what they think she would want and come after us. Specifically Enjolras, since he antagonised Claudia the most by sleeping with Henri, but all of us could be at risk.

“Yes, we’re used to risk. Yes, the amount we get our lives threatened each week has increased since we started defending Henri. The fact does remain, however, that now Henri is gone, we are the logical next step.”

Fear spikes within me and I keep my eyes fixed on Enjolras, silently willing him to look at me, to acknowledge this. When he does I raise my eyebrows at him. He sighs.

“So, we eliminate the threat,” he says, heavily. “The possible threat,” he then corrects.

He gets to his feet, commanding everyone’s attention, instead of letting them run the conversation as he has been doing. “First we need to be certain of who specifically shot Duvert, and we need to find that person. Courfeyrac and I have a name, but we can’t be sure that it’s correct. Claquesous.”

I startle in surprise. “Montparnasse’s ex?” I ask, momentarily forgetting my chosen silence.

Enjolras shoots me a confused look. “What?”

“Geneviève Claquesous,” I say. “She used to date Montparnasse. You know, our resident drug dealer and general no-good-doer?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at me. “Yes, I know who Parnasse is, R, thank you for that. Tell me more about Claquesous.”

I shift uncomfortably; suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes are on me. “Uh,” I start. “Well, when I first met her I was- Um, it was back when I was a user, y’know?” I rub at the back of my neck, fidgeting under their scrutiny. “So, uh, some things that I remember of her are a little- sketchy.”

Enjolras gives me a reassuring nod, and I keep my eyes trained on him, because it’s easier than looking at the others. I take a deep breath and exhale.

“When I first met her,” I begin again, “she wasn’t dating Parnasse. She was just a customer, like me. Montparnasse is a little… unconventional, and he would regularly hang out with multiple clients together, and get high, yeah? So that’s how I met Claquesous. We got along well enough, but we didn’t really have much in common besides an overwhelming desire to get high a lot.” I don’t look away from him. “She and Parnasse got close quickly, but honestly? From Montparnasse’s side it meant nothing. Second best, and all that.”

“Second best?” Enjolras asks.

I shrug. “Second best to me,” I say, and bite my lip. “But Claquesous liked him quite a lot, and they got together. It all fell apart when Claquesous sold him out to the police when she walked in on Parnasse trying to get it on with me.” I manage a smile. “I’m quite the catch, haven’t you noticed?” I ask, dryly.

Enjolras grins at that, and replies, “No, not really,” in a teasing manner.

“Ugh,” Éponine says. “Spare us the flirting, it’s like watching Mum and Dad kiss.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Jehan says.

I roll my eyes and continue. “What I’m saying is Claquesous is definitely the type to sell out a loved one, and probably even murder, if she gets something out of it. Or gets the chance to screw over someone who wronged her.”

Enjolras nods, looking deadly serious once more. “So you think she could be our guy?”

“Yeah, sure, if she’s got the motive,” I say, non-committal.

“Right,” Enjolras says. “So, we find the motive.” He looks around, possibly checking he has everyone’s attention – which, of course, he does. “Courfeyrac, I want you to go talk to Montparnasse. Feuilly, Combeferre, find out what you can about Claquesous virtually. Facebook, Twitter, check her phone records if possible, just find out what you can. Grantaire, come with me, we need to talk.”

As the others start getting up and going into Action Mode, Enjolras comes over and holds out his hand to help me to my feet. Our fingers lace together automatically, and it feels like the spaces between my fingers were designed so that his would fit perfectly there, interlocking.

When we get out into the hallway, he leads me off into a separate room that I haven’t been in before.

He faces me, and takes hold of my other hand too. “Do you trust me, R?” he asks.

“What?” I ask, with a frown.

“Do you trust me?” he asks again.

I hesitate, but when I think about it, I know that I do. I trust him with our friend’s lives. “Yes,” I say.

He takes a deep breath. “You know that everything I’ve done since meeting you has been an attempt to keep you safe, and I know that sometimes that’s gone wrong, and you’ve gotten hurt – which is something I will _never_ forgive myself for.”

“Where’s this going, Enjolras?” I’m utterly lost.

“If this all falls apart, I want you to leave with me,” he says, his voice ringing with sincerity. “We’ll get out. We’ll start over and wait for anything that went really wrong to pass. Then, when it’s done, we’ll all regroup and we can start again. I want things to change, but if I had to choose between what I want, and my friends’ and your safety, then I’d choose you. I’d choose you first, every time.”

I stare at him, breathing out heavily. “And if I don’t come with you?” My voice shakes as I ask the question.

He breathes in sharply, one of his hands squeezes mine tightly, seemingly on impulse. “If this goes wrong, if we are the next target and I can’t stop it, I’ll have to leave. You- You don’t have to come with me. Obviously, it’s your choice. It might not even come to this. I just- The thought of leaving you behind… I can’t bear it, R. I can’t lose you.”

“Apollo,” I sigh. “Really, you lost me when you lied for the second time.”

His entire body goes stiff and he looks… _afraid_. “Grantaire,” he whispers, and it sounds like a plea.

“I love you, but, God, Enjolras, we’re not healthy. You’re a pathological _liar_ and I never know where I stand. My life has gone from being structured to _this_ , and I’m not equipped to deal with that.” I take a deep breath. “I have spent a great deal of my life struggling to keep myself in control,” I say. “To know myself inside and out. I lose that when I’m with you. That frightens me and–”

“I don’t want you to be frightened,” Enjolras interrupts, making me sigh.

“It frightens me how _okay_ I am with it,” I finish, looking up at him. “How tempting it is to lose myself in you. To let go. To let you keep me from being ruined rather than constantly worrying about it myself, and to just pretend that I believe your lies in order to keep this going.”

“I could,” he says, “and you said you believed me.”

“I know.”

We stand, motionless, as I gaze up at Enjolras and he stares down at me.

“I do trust and believe that you never _want_ to lie to me again, but I _can’t_ trust or believe that that is a guarantee,” I explain. “As soon as you think that it would be better or safer for me not to know something, you’d lie. I know that’s what you think is best, but that’s not how relationships work, Enjolras. I love you, and I know you love me, but we don’t have trust in this relationship.”

He looks neither lost nor found in this moment, neither confident nor insecure. “Are you leaving me?” he asks, and his voice doesn’t tremble.

“I’ll stay with you for now. Not- not what we were, but I’ll stay here, not with you but not without you, while you try and get this mess fixed, but if you end up leaving, I’m not coming with you.”

He nods, and I notice that his expression seems completely vacant.  He drops my hands and takes a step back. “I- I- I need a moment,” he says. “Can you- Can you wait here?”

I nod, and he leaves the room quickly, not looking back at me as he slams the door shut behind him.

I sink to the floor, uncaring, and press my palm against my mouth, stifling the sob that seems determined to be heard. My body is shaking uncontrollably, and I know it.

When the first tears spring from my eyes I wipe them away angrily, because I know that I’m doing the right thing.

However, when the door swings open, and it’s not Enjolras that walks through, but Joly and Bossuet, I break down completely. They gather me up in their arms, holding me tightly.

“So,” Joly says, softly, “you broke up with Enjolras.”

“I broke up with Enjolras,” I confirm, and saying it out loud proves to be a million times harder and more painful than I ever would have guessed.

“Can I ask why?” Bossuet asks, his voice gently curious.

I shrug. “Because I’ve forgotten how to be a person without him, and I second guess whether he’s telling me the truth every time he opens his Goddamn mouth.”

“Fair enough.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t love him,” I tell them, shakily. “I mean, obviously I love him a lot, and I don’t ever want to lose him, and I don’t really meant that, but- but if I didn’t _know_ him; if I never met him; maybe… Maybe things would be better.”

Joly makes a soft noise of sympathy as he and Bossuet wrap their arms around me just a little tighter.

“You know we’re here for you, right?” Joly whispers in my ear.

“I know,” I manage to reply. “Okay,” I then say, gently prying their hands off me and wiping roughly under my eyes. “Okay, this isn’t the time to fall apart. I’m doing this and it’s for the best. I’ve got to man up and fucking deal.”

Bossuet presses a careful kiss to my hairline and hums under his breath. “No, you really don’t. But if that’s what you want, we can pretend you’re fine.”

I smile at that, a little wryly and a little sadly, but I smile. “That would be greatly appreciated.”


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

 

“I think it’s very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.”

_— Oscar Wilde_

 

Nothing has changed, but at the same time everything is different. He’s still there and I’m still here. I still love him and I know that I watch him with the same expression that I always have – that adoration and incredible fondness that he instils in me. He still works harder than anyone I’ve ever known. He still talks with that passion and that conviction that I simply do not have.

Sometimes his eyes meet mine across the room – filled with people that never stop moving – and I can see his heart breaking.

Other times he looks at me and his eyes barely stay for a second before moving onto something more pressing.

Both hurt.

We hardly talk, but every now and then he’ll call my name and when I respond he says, “Never mind,” as if remembering who we are to each other, now.

Mostly I stick with Joly and Bossuet, following them around and watching what they’re doing. I talk with Cosette a lot, though sometimes I avoid her because she has a tendency to ask how I’m doing. Éponine ruffles my hair every time she walks past me, and I suppose she thinks it’s supportive. Courfeyrac and Combeferre regularly throw me matching concerned looks, and then look at the other, a silent conversation passing between them. Jehan writes rhyming couplets (that sometimes don’t actually rhyme) and slips them into my hand for me to read occasionally – a few they stole from someone else, always scrawling the original poets name at the end, but some are their own, and I love those poems all the more for that.

Everyone seems to be going out of their way to be nice to me, as if I’m going to fall apart any second, but from where I’m standing it’s Enjolras that seems breakable, right now.

He throws himself into his work like it’s all he knows, but sometimes I catch him staring into space with a lost look on his face. I don’t know how much of it’s my fault, and how much of it is his dread of having to leave Paris.

If this doesn’t turn out the way he wants it to, some of them – us – could get hurt, and he’s going to leave.

The door crashes open, a loud bang followed by a hectic scuffle as Éponine and Bahorel and Feuilly drag Claquesous through the door while she continues to struggle.

We all get to our feet, watching the scene unfold, and Éponine and Bahorel and Feuilly all but throw the woman to her knees before us. She tries to get back up, spitting curses at us all, but Feuilly calmly pulls a gun on her, pointing it directly at her head.

Claquesous goes still then, glaring, but when her eyes find me she just looks shocked. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

I lift my chin and give her indifferent shrug.

“You Goddamn boyfriend-stealing _bastard_ ,” she spits at me.

Coolly, I say, “Like I’d fucking want your ex.”

“I caught you together!” she cries, angrily.

“No you _didn’t_ , you asshole. You caught him coming onto _me_ ; I didn’t want jack shit to do with him!”

“That’s not what it looked like,” she tells me, darkly.

I open my mouth to retaliate, but Enjolras grabs my arm, so I fall silent, choosing to glare at Claquesous instead.

Shaking off Enjolras’ hold on me, I go to stand beside Cosette to watch what happens.

Claquesous looks like a restrained animal, on the verge of turning into a beast, and I must admit I’m a little wary of her in this moment.

“You know why you’re here?” Enjolras asks her, standing over her and using the height to make himself all the more powerful in this situation.

“No,” Claquesous spits, and she’s lying – she has to be.

Enjolras looks down at her, his entire being radiating how unimpressed he is. “Do you want to try that again?”

Claquesous shrugs. “I have no idea why I am here.”

“So you didn’t assassinate our Prime Minister earlier this week?” Enjolras asks, one eyebrow raised.

Claquesous grins. “No, I did not. But I’d like to shake the hand of the person that did.”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchange a look, the unsaid worry that maybe they got the wrong guy passing between them.

I step in. “Stop lying, Sous. We know you did it, and we really don’t have the patience to deal with you right now. It’s in your best interest to just tell us what you know, who paid you to do this, and why, or things are not going to be so great for you.”

Claquesous laughs. “You think that I believe blondie’s gonna _hurt_ me?” she asks, tauntingly.

“No,” I say, “but the hot brunette over here-” I point at Éponine who’s glaring at Claquesous murderously, “-definitely will.”

Éponine grins, wolfishly, and Claquesous honest to God looks a little nervous.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, giving me a look, but I shrug.

“Do you want results or not?”

Éponine pulls one of her knives out of her jacket and twirls it round in between her fingers, not taking her eyes off of Claquesous. When Éponine takes a step towards the now cowering woman, she swears. “Okay, okay, calm down, I’ll tell you what I know!”

Éponine looks a little disappointed, but Enjolras looks thrilled – if a little irritated at me for taking that course of action.

“I killed Duvert,” Claquesous says, proudly.

“Who put you up to it?” Enjolras demands, taking the lead again.

“His wife,” Claquesous says. “You know I always knew there wasn’t something right about that woman, and when I met her, God, I was right. She gave me a hundred thousand to kill her husband if she died. Like, straight up, approaches me and seems to know all my business, and then she hands me a hundred thousand in cash and says that if she dies I have to kill Duvert.”

“Why’d you do it, though?” I ask, curious. “You had your money and she was dead. Nothing was making you keep to it.”

Claquesous face grows dark. “That dick ruined my life. I could barely afford to live with him running things till his wife paid me to kill him. Thought I’d return the favour.”

“But you must know that that wasn’t entirely his fault,” Enjolras protests, frowning. “We don’t like things the way they are either, but you can’t place all the blame on one man!”

“Sure I can,” Claquesous says. “Besides, the woman wanted him dead, she got me into a good place and with enough money to get by for a little while, I figured the most I could do was kill this one guy. I’m good at that – I knew no one would catch me. She died, I’m assuming, trying to get this done, and I was her backup. Couldn’t let such a generous if highly neurotic woman down, now, could I?”

Enjolras looks at the woman with clear disdain. “You disgusting woman,” he says, “doing the dirty work for people who are clearly not stable.” He scoffs. “Typical druggie: you’ll do anything for a bit more cash, won’t you?”

“What can I say?” Claquesous says, offhandedly. “I’m a woman of my word. If I tell you I’ll kill someone, I’ll get the job done.” Then she pulls an indignant face. “And I won’t do _anything,_ thank you very much. I’m a criminal and a murderer, yes, but I’m not actually _that_ desperate.”

Éponine gives an audible laugh at that, and when Enjolras gives her a look she says, “What? I like her.”

Claquesous nods in her direction, with a crooked smile, as if Éponine hadn’t been threatening to torture her moments ago.

I frown, because where do we go from here? Claquesous' connection to all this was Claudia herself, and it’s unlikely that she knew any of Claudia’s people, and it’s _very_ unlikely if she knows whether we are in danger.

Combeferre comes to the same conclusion as me, apparently. “Did you ever speak with anyone else about this?”

Claquesous shrugs. “A few friends, I guess. No one connected to Mme. Duvert, though. Sorry.”

Courfeyrac groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, wearily. Not looking at Claquesous, he asks, “So you have no idea if her ‘group’ is reforming with a new leader and new goals?”

Claquesous looks round then, confusion flashing across her face. “Why would they?”

“Just answer the question,” Courfeyrac says, long-sufferingly.

“No, I have no idea if there are any plans for that,” she says. “I wasn’t actually one of hers, you get that, right? She just paid me to do this one thing. Fuck, can I stand up, please? My knees are killing me, down here.”

Enjolras waves a hand at her, and she clambers to her feet in a very ungraceful manner, groaning and stretching. She mutters a bitter ‘thanks’ accompanied with a glare at Enjolras.

Turning to Cosette, I ask in a whisper, “What are they going to do now?” because surely there’s nowhere to go from here.

“ _We,_ ” she says, forcefully, “are going to work out if there is any truth to our suspicions.”

I nod, slowly. “Right.” My eyes find Enjolras, who’s deep in conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, all three of them looking very serious. I swallow as my eyes track the movement of Enjolras’ mouth. “I- I need some air,” I tell Cosette, before heading for the door.

Enjolras’ voice stops me, and I’m surprised he saw me at all. “Where are you going, R?”

I give him my best smile, and say, “Just for some air. I’ll be right back.” I pull my mobile out of my pocket and wave it. “I’ll be perfectly safe.”

He nods and doesn’t say anything further, but I feel his eyes on my back as I walk out the room.

The air outside is cold and refreshing, a stark difference to the stifling air inside. Sometimes it gets hard to breathe in there – with Enjolras so close, and not being able to touch, with everyone around, working hard and never stopping, with the weight of it all, bearing down on me so that I think it might be easier to just crumble to the ground and stay there.

Wandering a little away from the door of the Hideout, I shove my hands into my pockets and keep my head down, breathing in and out at a steady rate.

When I make it out onto the main high-street I stare at all the people going about their lives in disbelief. Their Prime Minister is dead, assassinated live on TV, and not twenty feet away a group of people are working tirelessly to work out what’s going on. I’ve had my world flipped on its head, and these people don’t even notice.

I lose myself in the crowds, and though I told Enjolras I wouldn’t be long or far, I follow the crowds down the streets, knowing nothing but the steady beat of my heart and the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the ground. My eyes follow pigeons that fly from roof to roof. My fingers twitch in my pockets.

When I come across a small and relatively quiet café, I head in. It’s nice inside, homey, clearly a family run business. There’s a teenager behind the counter who looks nothing but happy to be here, and they give me a bright smile as I head over.

“What can I do for you?” they ask.

Scanning my eyes over the menu on a blackboard behind the counter I order a black coffee and a ham and cheese melt.

The teen charges me and then tells me to take a seat, saying they’ll bring the food and drink over when it’s ready.

Settling into a chair by the window, I go back to watching the people. Nothing is the same.

It’s odd to think now that, not so long ago, I didn’t really care for life. I didn’t have anything keeping me here, save for maybe a fear of death. All I had in life was my art, having pushed away my friends – even Courfeyrac, dear Courfeyrac – and I never expected to have the love of one such as Enjolras.

At times, after I had gained the love of Enjolras, I didn’t think I deserved him. He was golden, pure, bright, and beautiful. He was all that was good in the world, and so much more. I was miserable, and had thought that I would bring him down on my most melancholic days.

In time, I came to accept him, however. I thought myself his equal. I _am_ his equal. We were in it together.

Ours was a ridiculous story, where I loved – love – him, and he loved – _loves_ – me.

Happiness floods my entire being at the thought of him, because, when it all comes down to it, when we were together, I was happier then I can ever remember being. He could make me laugh easier than most people can. He always made me feel cared for.

His lies ruined us, but his love and his reasons for his lies give me peace.

I entertain the thought of leaving. If I was the one to leave, and not Enjolras, maybe– but I know that it’s not me or him. He wanted me to come with him. He’s leaving, not because of me, but for his own safety. I wouldn’t call it running, more… strategic fleeing, perhaps.

That’s not fair of me. He wouldn’t be thinking about doing this unless it was completely necessary, and part of me knows that if he doesn’t leave, none of our friends will.

The teenager brings across my food and drink, and I give them a smile in thanks before tucking in. The food is actually delicious, and the atmosphere in the small café is relaxing after the madness of everything I’ve been through the past few weeks.

Sometimes I wonder how I’m still functioning – how _any_ of us are still functioning really.

I pull my phone out of my pocket after I’ve shoved my plate away from me, and I scroll through my texts as I sip at my coffee. There are a few from various members of Les Amis, asking where I am, and I reply to Joly’s, telling them all that I’ll be back soon.

My phone starts to ring then, and I sigh as Enjolras’ name fills the screen. “What?” I ask, when I answer.

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding more than a little angry.

“Just… out and about,” I say. “Look, I’ll be back soon.”

“Get back now,” he growls. “This is ridiculous, have you been paying attention to _anything_ the past few days?”

“Believe it or not, Enjolras, I have,” I say, irritated. “I’m coming back now, calm down,” I say, and then I hang up, shoving my phone back into my pocket and draining my coffee. I take my dishes over to the counter and say ‘thank you’ again.

As I walk back to the Hideout, I’m fuming. How dare he? He doesn’t _own_ me.

I shove open the door and march up the stairs back to everyone. His relief when he sees me is clear.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking a stroll down the street, Apollo,” I say, when he strides over to me and grips my arm tightly, his other hand touching my chin and making me look up at him as his eyes scan over my face.

“Right, because no one has ever used you to get at me before,” he grits out, talking quietly, because though the others have continued to get on with their own jobs and conversations, we are in a room of people. “How absurd of me to worry that you’ve been kidnapped, or murdered, or- or- fuck.”

I soften a little, and a spike of guilt fills me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you where I was, but remember, I’m not your concern anymore.”

He sighs. “You’ll always be my concern, R.”

I don’t really know what to do with that, so I pull away and give him a small nod. “Sorry for worrying you.”

He groans, sounding frustrated. “No, I’m sorry. Look, I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself, and I know that I seem controlling and awful, I just-”

“No, I get it. You’ve been through a lot,” I say with a shrug. “I’m worried about you, too.”

He swallows visibly and reaches to lace our fingers together, giving my hand a squeeze. “I love you,” he whispers.

“Love you too,” I sigh, squeezing his hand back before letting go and walking away from him before I do something thoughtless that I will regret later.

The rest of the day passes without another word exchanged between Enjolras and me. I sit in the corner of the room, watching everyone, because really that’s all I’m good for. However, when night falls, Enjolras approaches me. He holds out his hands and all but begs me to come with him.

I take his hand and let him lead me to the room where he sleeps. He strips off his shirt and jeans and lies down on the mattress, gently tugging me down too.

I pull off my shirt and scoot out of my jeans too, tossing them onto the floor to join his.

“This is a bad idea,” I mumble, even as I curl up against his side, my head coming to rest on his chest.

His fingers brush through my hair and he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Probably.”

We’re quiet for a long while, and my eyes drift closed. Just as I’m about to drop off to sleep, he speaks again.

“While you were gone, we managed to get in contact with a woman named Fantine.” I don’t reply and wait for him to continue. “Turns out she was working for Claudia by force. Her boyfriend, a man named Felix Tholomyès, was quite high-up in the chain of command.”

I hum a response, to let him know I’m listening.

“Fantine told us everything she knows and has now gone into hiding. It seems that we were right about there being a continuation, and us being the targets.”

I take a deep breath. I try to slow my heartbeat. His fingers run through my hair again, soothing me.

“A group of us are going to try and meet with Tholomyès. Combeferre’s attempting to arrange it now.”

I know where this is going. “I suppose you’re going.”

“I am,” he says, and then presses another kiss to my head. “Are you okay with that?”

“No,” I reply, “but you’ve never let that stop you before.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, R.”

“I know, Enj.”

“Try and get some rest,” he says, his arm curving around me. “I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

“When is it not?” I ask, dryly, but I do as he suggests, letting the rise and fall of his chest beneath my head lull me into unconsciousness.

\---

Waking up is a torture that I hate enduring – being ripped away from the calm of sleep, from the embrace of Enjolras – but it is a necessary one, or at least, it seems to be, from the way I hear Combeferre saying, “I wouldn’t have woken you if it wasn’t important.”

Enjolras gives me a little shake, and I blink my eyes open, tiredly. It’s still dark outside and my head feels groggy, as if parts of me are still sleeping. I move so that I’m not lying on top of Enjolras, and he gives me a gentle kiss on the head before pulling out from under me and getting out of bed. Dimly, I watch him pull on a shirt.

Turning back to me, he asks, “You coming?”

I hum under my breath. “Am I needed or wanted?”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre, who shrugs, and then Enjolras says to me, “Needed? Probably not. Wanted? Always.”

I stare up at him – at his earnest expression – and then I get out of bed and set about getting dressed too. He and Combeferre wait for me, and then we all head back to the main room together.

The room is mostly empty, with a lot of our friends still asleep, I suppose.

I settle into a chair, turning my eyes to the laptop on Combeferre’s desk. On screen, there is a paused video.

“We got this from Tholomyès,” Combeferre says, “but we can’t prove if it’s actually him on screen or not. We have no idea what this guy looks like, whether this is him, or if this is an actor.”

Enjolras sighs. “Play the video,” he says, tiredly.

Combeferre does as he asks, and we watch as the person on screen settles more comfortably in their chair and begins to speak.

“Hello, Enjolras and Co. How are you all doing?”

I start to chew on my thumbnail, anxiously watching the screen. Combeferre seems fairly shaken, so it can’t be good.

“I’m not in the mood to be patient, and you’ve made it pretty clear you’re searching for me, so here’s my suggestion:

“One of you – Enjolras, preferably, but hey, if you send someone else we get to have more fun – comes to see me at this address-” here he rattles off an address, not too far from here, and I grit my teeth together “-and we’ll see how it goes.

“Honestly, come here and we’ll see who gets out of this alive. Spoiler alert: it won’t be you. I’m willing to negotiate, but if you send more than one person, you lose that right, and if I don’t like what you’re asking for, you’ll die anyway.”

Enjolras looks over at Combeferre with a frown, and Combeferre motions for him to look back at the screen, ashen-faced.

The camera pans out a little and I suck in a sharp breath. Standing a little to the side of the man – the possible Tholomyès – is a little child, being held tightly with a gun pressed to their temple. The kid can’t be much older than ten, looking at the size.

“Gavroche,” Enjolras breathes, looking horrified. I recognise the name, but I can’t remember where from. It’s not until Tholomyès starts to laugh and Enjolras asks, “Does Éponine know?” that I realise who the kid is.

He’s Éponine’s little brother.

“No,” Combeferre says quietly.

On screen, Tholomyès starts to talk again. “A little incentive to actually show up: you have forty-eight hours to get here, or the kid dies. I’ll leave it up to you to tell his sister.”

The screen goes blank, and my hands are shaking.

Enjolras looks on the verge of breaking down, but when he speaks his voice is strong and clear. “Someone wake Éponine.”

“Is that a good idea?” Combeferre asks.

“If it were Courfeyrac in there, you’d want to know wouldn’t you?” Enjolras asks, not taking his eyes off the dark screen.

“It’s not really the same thing,” Combeferre replies.

“Family’s family,” Enjolras says, and his eyes slide across to me for a second, before he turns to look at Combeferre.

Combeferre nods and then disappears out the door.

I want to say something to bring some form of comfort to Enjolras, but nothing comes to mind.

I shake, sitting in my chair, and I can’t imagine the fear that Éponine will experience in a moment. (Enjolras left with the police. Enjolras talking to Claudia with only Courfeyrac by his side. Leaving Enjolras’ side with no way of getting to him if he gets hurt.)

When Éponine comes into the room with Combeferre, she looks confused and still half-asleep.  Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s only wearing a baggy white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Her feet are bare on the wooden floor. “What’s going on?” she asks.

Combeferre directs her to a chair, and when he starts the video again, he settles onto a chair beside her and takes her hand in his, holding it tightly.

I can’t watch the video again, so I watch her.

Her eyes fix on the video, a small frown on her face showing her confusions as to what’s going on, but as Tholomyès continues to talk, her eyes grow hard.

When the camera pans out to show Gavroche she goes completely rigid. A soft, “No,” escapes her. It’s not until the video comes to an end that she moves.

Tholomyès words of, “Or the kid dies,” hang in the air between us all, and then she’s on her feet, tearing her hand away from Combeferre’s.

“We’re going to get him, right?” she asks, spinning to face Enjolras, her face filled with fury.

He hesitates – opens his mouth, and pauses. He shuts his mouth. He tries again. “Éponine,” he begins, slowly.

“Don’t you ‘Éponine’ me! He’s got my _brother_!” she cries, eyes blazing with anger.

“I know,” Enjolras says, softly. He reaches out and gently touches her arm. “Éponine, I know, and we’re going to get him back, but we have to be rational about this. How long do we have, Combeferre?”

“He said forty-eight, and we received that video less than an hour ago, so all the time in the world,” Combeferre says, and his words seem to calm Éponine. She looks over at him, and he nods at her, and she nods back. “Ép, we’ll get him back. You know none of us want to see Gav come to harm.”

He looks over at Enjolras. “You should get some rest. Couple more hours will do you good. I’ll wake Joly and Bossuet to stay up with Ép and me to strategize. If we need you, we’ll come get you.”

Enjolras – surprisingly – nods. “Get Feuilly too,” is all he says, and then he walks over to me and holds out his hand. I take it and let him lead me from them room.

I feel a little weak on my feet, really, horrified that Enjolras interacts with people who threaten children.

We pull off our clothes again and pile back onto Enjolras’ mattress. He presses up against my back as I curl up and squeeze my eyes shut.

“You’re not going to go, are you?” I ask, timidly. It’s exactly the sort of thing he would do – getting himself killed for the greater good.

He wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my neck. “Of course not,” he says.

“Promise?” I ask.

“I’m not going,” he promises.

I fall asleep, feeling secure and safe in his arms and his words.

\---

When I wake up, I’m alone. It’s still early, but I’ve gotten cold and it woke me up. I look around the room, noting that his clothes are gone, and the part of the bed where he had been lying is freezing to the touch.

So, he’s been gone a long time.

Sometimes, I really hate him.

I’m under no delusions that he’s just talking with Combeferre, or any such thing. There is no doubt in my mind where he is.

He lied to me. _Again_.

I feel like a goddamn fool for ever believing him.

I stay in bed, and when Combeferre comes into my – Enjolras’ – room and seems surprised that Enjolras isn’t there, I curl up under the covers.

“Where is he, Grantaire?” Combeferre demands to know.

“He left without waking me,” I mumble.

I hear Combeferre sigh, and then the sound of him leaving the room and the door shutting behind him.

Eventually, I crawl out of bed, ignoring the sick feeling that settles in my stomach because – once again – he might _die_ today.

When I get through to the other room, it’s to find everyone in the midst of an argument.

“They shouldn’t have gone!” Bahorel roars.

“What? They should have just let my brother _die_?” Éponine shrieks.

Bahorel glares at her, fiercely. “That is not what I meant. They shouldn’t have gone without _telling_ us. We could have helped. God knows what’s going to happen to them now.”

I quickly scan the room, trying to work out who else is missing. As my eyes lock on Combeferre, I know who it is – and who else would it have been? Combeferre’s hands are clenched, the skin of his knuckles white, and his face is drained of colour, making him look equal parts exhausted and terrified. He catches me looking and holds my gaze. Because of course it’s Courfeyrac that Enjolras took with him. Of course it is.

“Do we know where they are?” I ask Combeferre.

He shakes his head and says, “We have the address of where they’re headed, of course, but- I mean- we have no way to contact them. They didn’t take phones, radios, cameras, anything.”

I nod, feeling weak. We might never know what happened to them if they don’t come back.

God, I’m so mad at him – mad at him for lying to _me_ , lying to _them_ , and for being the reckless martyr that he is.

I could take this out on him – I could blame him for not seeing and stopping Enjolras – if I didn’t know exactly how he feels right now. He’s as shaken by this as I am, and I know he’s terrified for Courfeyrac.

The fear that you might never see a loved one again leaves a dry, bitter taste in your mouth and unrest in your stomach. It’s a rolling, writhing, gut-wrenching fear.

The others continue to argue around us, and Combeferre and I are lost. The pair of us drift away from the group, falling into chairs, and we sit in silence, minds spinning.

The others notice, clearly, because they all fall silent, and not long later, everyone’s just sitting and dwelling on their own thoughts.

“How didn’t you notice them leaving?” I ask Combeferre, quietly. “You, Éponine, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet – how did none of you see them leave?”

He looks at me and despair is carved into every line of his face. “I don’t know, Grantaire… I don’t know.”

\---

When Enjolras finally comes back, he limps through the doorway, arm slung around Courfeyrac’s shoulder and Courfeyrac’s arm around his waist. Holding tightly to Courfeyrac’s other hand is Gavroche, and the kid immediately lets go and throws himself into his older sister’s arms, the pair of them sobbing as they cling to each other. Combeferre stands up, staring directly at Courfeyrac, and without a word passing between the two of them they leave the room together.

Other than his leg, Enjolras seems to be fine – and that’s how I justify marching up to him and slapping him across the face.

“You absolute bastard,” I scream. If he’d died I’d never be this angry – I’d just be lost and ruined – but he’s here and anger is the only way I can make sense of the depth of betrayal that I feel. “What did I fucking say about lying to me? Do you remember that conversation? You know, the one where I said that if you lied to me again then I’m gone? But no, you don’t listen. You never fucking listen. If it’s good for you, then who gives a shit what Grantaire thinks?” I’ve already reached the ‘talking in third person and being overly sarcastic’ point of my anger, so I think ‘to hell with it’. “You are the most selfish person I have ever met – have you _ever_ , once in your life, genuinely cared about someone else’s feelings? Because from where I’m standing, you pathetic excuse for a human being, as long as it works out in _your_ favour, you don’t care at all.”

He keeps his head down, eyes trained on the ground, looking perfectly ashamed of himself.

“Fuck you,” I spit. “Have fun getting yourself killed, I’m not going to hang around and watch.”

Enjolras looks up then, and his emotions are written across his face for everyone to see. Hurt, sadness, guilt, regret, all of it clear to see.

I don’t stop, though. I’ve made my choice.

\---

When I get home, it’s to find Éponine sitting on my couch.

I know I should be surprised, since I thought I’d taken the fastest route home, but I’m not. She must have run the whole way here, and she’s not even slightly out of breath. I stand in the doorway and we simply look at each other for a long, drawn out moment.

“Hi, Éponine,” I say, eventually, and then I head straight for my kitchen, in desperate need of a drink.

She follows me, and doesn’t try to stop me when I go straight for the vodka. After I’ve taken three gulps of the liquid that will hopefully bring me release, if only for a few days, she says, “Tholomyès is still alive.”

I just nod, because what am I supposed to say? I’ve walked away.

“They’re putting it to a vote. Either they’re going to stay and risk their lives trying to stop Tholomyès, or they’re going to leave.”

“What are you voting?” I ask, tonelessly.

“To leave,” she says. “I’ve gotta take care of Gavroche, and after Claudia… we’re in no position to be trying to tackle a problem of this size.” She sighs. “I’ve suggested to them that they withdraw and go back to their minor issues with the world. Work on something like LGBTQA+ rights, or something. I don’t know. Try to convince people to recycle, maybe.”

I just nod again.

“I just want them to stay away from politicians and murderers for a while,” she says. “Get out. Regroup. Work out a game plan from a safe distance. There is no doubt in my mind that they can take down Tholomyès, none at all, but we’re _weak_ right now. Claudia destroyed us, albeit temporarily.

“So I said they should leave, but that I am leaving no matter what they choose to do. They are my family, but Gavroche comes first. I was prepared to fight to the death for them, but when Gav got involved… You understand, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” I say, hoarsely, and then I take another swig of my drink. I offer her the bottle, but she shakes her head.

“Can’t be drunk when I’m trying to get out of the country,” she says, with a shrug.

“Fair enough,” I mutter, and take another gulp. “So, why come here first?”

“I thought you should know,” she says. “I guess I won’t be seeing you for a while, R.”

I look at her and she actually seems saddened by that thought.

“Take care of yourself,” she says. “Don’t let the memory of Enjolras ruin your life. He loves you, but he’s not good for you. Maybe one day things will be different, but now? You can be you for a while, without worrying that your boyfriend’s about to get himself killed.”

I laugh, humourlessly, and she throws herself into my arms, giving me a tight hug. I almost drop the bottle, but manage to keep it gripped between my fingers as I hug her back.

“I know you love him,” she says, her voice muffled, “but it’s time to let go.”

I nod and release her. “Take care, Éponine. Come visit me one day.”

“You betcha,” she says, with a weak grin. She chucks me under the chin with her knuckles, making me lift my head a little. “Chin up,” she says. “‘Even the darkest night’ and all that.”

“Well,” I say, dryly, “not for the first time, I’m not exactly looking forward to what the rising sun will show.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek, says her goodbye, and then makes her leave. I stand alone in my flat and wonder if I’ll ever see her – any of them – again.

\---

He knocks on my door at 10pm and we stand in the doorway for a long time. Over his shoulder is a bag and at his feet is his suitcase.

“You’re leaving,” I say, as if it needs saying.

He nods, bites his lip, and then says, softly, “Come with me, R.” He looks at me earnestly. “Please.”

“I can’t,” I reply. He knows it; I know it. I told him I wouldn’t leave with him and I can’t go back on that. I can’t be with him anymore.

We stare at each other: me in my flat, and him standing in the hallway.

“Do you want to come in?” I ask, at last, maybe thinking that this will be the last time I see him and I find myself desperately wanting to make the most of it.

He shakes his head but takes a step forwards, nonetheless. When we’re merely inches apart my hand drifts up and my fingers ghost along his jawline, hardly touching him. They brush across his lips, and he kisses my fingertips, an act of reverence almost.

I feel myself falling apart.

Then he steps around my hand and presses the most careful of kisses to my cheek. “I’ll miss you,” he whispers.

“Probably not half as much as I’ll miss you,” I reply.

Another kiss is planted on my cheek, a little closer to my mouth this time, and I sigh. Then he places another on the corner of my mouth.

“This might be the last time I see you,” I say. “Let’s not beat around the bush.”

Wrapping my arms around his neck I firmly kiss his lips, hoping that I manage to convey every feeling of sadness, loss, love, and regret that is within me right in this moment.

“I refuse to never see you again,” he says when we part, “but for now, at least for a while, you might be right.”

“Stay safe,” I tell him. “Don’t get killed, and please, try not to get caught up in another little fight with a politician’s wife.”

He smiles, just a little, kissing me again. “You’re one of the best things that has ever happened to me, Cyrene.”

“And you mean the world to me, Apollo,” I respond.

His eyes shut as he presses our foreheads together. I lean into him and breathe out.

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

That’s the last thing he ever says to me – goodbye – and I wish it had been something less final.

\---

With Enjolras gone, I have no choice but to get on with my life. I find things to live for: I take up boxing and fencing; I start dancing again; I continue to paint.

It’s odd – while I once thought he gave me life only to take it away again, now I feel more alive than I have in years. Even without him, I am more a person than I was in the time before I met him. I’m the person that I once was a shadow of.

I spend my time doing things I love, I talk freely to strangers, I smile more, and I learn what it means to be truly happy.

Joly and Bossuet help – now that Les Amis have been forced to split up for the time being, we spend a lot of time together. A few of Les Amis are still in town; Joly and Combeferre have their jobs here, Feuilly can’t really afford to leave, and Bossuet and Musichetta would never go somewhere without Joly, but the rest scatter. Éponine took Gavroche and hitchhiked out of the city – but I don’t know where they went. Courfeyrac dropped in at mine before he went, red-eyed and teary, telling me that I better keep an eye on Combeferre. Jehan and Bahorel informed me that they were taking an extended trip across Europe, starting with Italy. Cosette and Marius left, with plans to start a new life together in England – at least for a while. Enjolras… I haven’t seen him since the day he said goodbye, and I’ve not heard a word from him, either.

I know the few that are still around are still in touch with Enjolras, but they never talk to me about him unless I ask. As the years fade away, I often think about him, but still I never see him.

Sometimes I ask Combeferre where he is: “America, I think.” “Currently, he’s in Germany.” “Italy.” “Switzerland.”

Occasionally I ask how he is: “Oh, you know Enjolras, he’s fine: probably trying to save the world on the road.”

And once, only once do I permit myself to ask, “Will he ever come back?”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Combeferre replies, with a smile. “He loves France too much to stay away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roll credits: honest – kodaline (no really go listen to that song i first heard it when i was well over half-way through writing this and couldn't believe how perfect it was for this fic and my plans for the final chapters)
> 
> well that's all folks (though i might might might write a sequel) thank you so much for reading this and leaving kudos and comments thank you <3 seriously, you're the best!
> 
> (this is a day late sorry i've been working so much i'm dead on my feet and it completely slipped my mind haha)
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a writing blog: theskyis-forever come say hi and leave a prompt :)


End file.
